The road to Orzammar's surface entrance was well-traveled and dotted with level spots where a wagon might stop to rest its mules, and we made excellent time despite the steep grade. The day when we would arrive dawned clear and very cold. Alistair had polished his (already clean and well-kept) armor to a high shine and hammered out the worst of the dents in an effort to look more respectable, and I dressed in my new armor; together we looked like a reasonably believable official Gray Warden envoy, as long as nobody looked too closely at our motley companions. And ignored my branded face. Maybe I should buy a helmet with a visor.

But as we drew closer, we began to pass more and more merchant caravans going the opposite direction, their draft animals tired and their drivers' faces set into identical expressions of dismay and tightly contained anger.

"Maybe people are going home because winter's coming," Alistair suggested, seeing my worried glances in their direction. He gave my shoulder a reassuring squeeze, and I leaned on him for a moment, very glad to be allowed the privilege once more.

The paved plateau that had been so colorful and noisy when I passed through it with Duncan had dwindled to a few dogged purveyors of travel rations and oats, to supply the merchants who were on their way home. I looked up at the guardian statues with undisguised joy, and shivered with pleasure when the tunnel's entrance beckoned to me.

Beside the massive stone gates stood the guards' pavilion, and beside that stood a few tents stamped with the Ferelden royal crest, which Alistair eyed with curiosity and suspicion. When we left Bodahn discussing care for his mules with the market quartermaster and approached the gate guards with the rest of our party in tow, a man in red armor leaned out of the largest tent to watch.

Alistair pulled the sealed scroll out of his pack and held it out like a shield. "We require entry into the city to present this treaty to the King," he said to the senior guard after glancing at me for confirmation. "Gray Warden business."

"Whoa, now, just hold on one minute!" cried the red-armored man. He scrambled out of his tent. "I'm here from the Regent of the throne of Ferelden itself, which, I might add, includes this mountain, and you've been letting me cool my heels for days. You can't possibly be considering letting these Gray Warden traitors in before me."

The senior guard's expression changed from annoyance to open dislike as the man spoke, and he deliberately ignored him, leaning forward instead to look more closely at the seal on the scroll. I noticed as he did so that the edge of a tattoo curled up from under his beard, and I realized suddenly that the outside guards were essentially in exile, just like the surface merchants and everyone else who'd dared to leave Orzammar and walk under the sun.

"Looks official enough," the man said in a deep, slightly drink-roughened voice. "But there's a problem-"

"What!" the Regent's representative exploded. "I will not stand for this insult! Regent Loghain himself declared the Gray Wardens traitors. If you ally yourselves with them-"

"Okay, I've heard just about enough of the T-word," Alistair snapped, turning to face the man, who took an involuntary step backward.

The guard sighed with exaggerated indifference. "Look, if you're going to fight, take it off my nice clean stone. Blood leaves stains."

"Oh for the love of – enough already!" Morrigan exploded, and threw out her hands. Instantly, the air seemed to contract around the unfortunate man, warping in the extreme change of temperature as snowflakes crystallized around him. He looked merely surprised, until he slowly toppled over backward and shattered on the stone.

"I apologize for that," Wynne said to the astonished guard, casting an exasperated look at our apostate. "If you sweep him up before he thaws, he won't leave a mess. Rocky, no! Don't eat that, you don't know where he's been!"

"That was a good one," I said to Morrigan, who preened.

"Right," said the guard, recovering. "You, Ralok, get a broom. Now, Wardens, I'd love to help you, but if you're looking for the King, you'll be looking for a long time. He's dead, and the assembly's yet to pick a new one."

"Dead? And no new king?" I blinked in surprise. The idea of Orzammar without a King was impossible - didn't noble government just sort of happen, whether you wanted it or not, like mold on bread?

"Wonderful," Morrigan turned her face up to the sky in mute appeal, possibly for a lightning bolt to strike down all these fools. "Can nobody solve their own problems? I suppose we shall be expected to pick a king for them?'

"Between you and me, duster," the guard leaned toward me and lowered his voice. "You might do a better job. Neither of the men in the running are as pure as gold, if you catch my meaning."

I frowned, worried. "Who's in the running? Actually, never mind. I wouldn't know them if you told me. Thanks for the help, Warrior...?"

He grinned, teeth flashing in the sunlight under his dense black beard. "Grenich. Just Grenich. You been an inspiration, Warden. The duster who escaped Dust Town. Convinced me to take this job, in fact. This posting's been declared part of the surface, so it's not covered by the prohibition against dusters doin' real work. Made sergeant in my first week when the other sergeant came out second-best in a brawl with a bear."

Alistair clapped me on the back as I stood there in shock. "Wow. I... don't know what to say. Congratulations?"

"Thanks," said Grenich, already turning a huge winch to open the stone gates. "If you're fixing on going home, though, you ought to know not everyone sees things as I do. Not everyone will be happy to see the woman who killed Bherat. Just a fair warning."

"Thanks again," I called back, already dashing through the widening gap and into the warm darkness inside.

The Hall of Heroes was unusually dimly lit, and the elevator attendant was asleep in the corner, no doubt due to the lack of traffic. He jumped at the sound of Alistair's boots on the polished stone floor and tried to pretend he hadn't been dozing.

Morrigan balked at the entrance to the elevator, looking back over her shoulder at the glinting of sunlight through the stone gates, the band of pale gold narrowing until, with a final grinding clunk, the gates were closed behind us. She clenched her hand on her staff, visibly steeled herself and stepped into the elevator.

The attendant fiddled with the controls, pulling a long lever with a knob on the end until it clanged into position over a diamond symbol. "No, we'll go to the Commons first, please," I interrupted him, and he nodded and heaved the lever to a lower setting.

The floor dropped out from under us with a lurch and the sound of rushing water, and we all grabbed instinctively for the handrails. It was comical to watch Alistair throw his hand out only to find the rail a foot lower than he'd expected it, and even more fun when that meant he staggered against Zevran.

"Hello, there," he smirked up at Alistair, hanging on to the rail with both hands to keep from being squashed under the bigger man.

Alistair pushed himself off and put a hand on the wall for balance. "Sorry."

"You know, you needn't resort to subterfuge to get close to me," Zevran purred, leaning towards him until their shoulders touched. "We both knew it was only a matter of time until you could no longer resist me. Don't fight it, my friend."

"Eurgh," Alistair grimaced, blushing. "Zev, you know I'm not – I'm not, um-"

"Yessss?"

"You know what?" Alistair gave a resigned sigh. "You saw right through me. I burn for you, Zev. My heart beats only for you. Take me now."

"Gladly!" Zev cried, slinging his pack off his shoulder and bending to open it. "I'm sure I have my scented oils in here somewhere..."

The elevator lurched to a halt and its operator lunged to open the doors with desperate haste. He shooed us out into the Commons and slammed the doors behind us, muttering, "Surfacer perverts."

The heat rose up and rolled over us, loosening our muscles and causing a general throwing-back of cloaks and removal of gloves. Only slightly less powerful was the noise, echoing and re-echoing off the stone walls as merchants hollered for attention, criers shouted the news of the day, and passers-by carried on their conversations. The warm orange glow of the lava suffused everything and lent its slightly acrid scent to the dry air, mingling with spices, roasting meat, burning oil, ale, and an underlying tang of sweat and garbage waiting for disposal.

I grabbed Alistair's hand and dragged him through the crowd to the edge of the level, all the way to the low stone wall that was all that lay between us and our distant, fiery deaths in the lava below. "Look up and down," I urged.

He craned his neck up toward the high-end districts, then leaned down and shaded his eyes to peer at the dingy lower levels. "So this is Orzammar," he said at last, in an awed voice. "It's huge! I guess I was expecting... well, a hole in the ground."

"It is a hole in the ground," I said, grinning. "It's the very best hole in the ground."

The others filtered through the press and mimicked his actions, peering around at the city. Morrigan tapped a finger against her chin and mused, "If there is anything complimentary to be said about your people, 'tis that they possess a remarkable facility for carving stone."

I blinked at her, then spotted the glint in her eye and laughed. "Yeah, and just the other day, Morrigan, I was thinking you might have some capability with magic, though of course I might be wrong."

"What a remarkable amount of lava. Does anyone ever fall in?" Zevran asked, then gave me a sly sidelong glance. "And are they already dead when they do?"

"Yes, and yes." I started toward the exit, and the stairs that led down to Dust Town. "It's a great way to get rid of suspicious bodies. Come on, I need to make sure my family is all right before we do anything else."

"Can we look around a little?" Leliana asked, twisting her neck to try to take in all the shopping options at once.

"Later."

Too urgent in my need to see my family was all right even to stop for some of the delicious-smelling nug kabob, I set a fast pace across the Commons to the grubby elevator to Dust Town. It had long ago ceased to function because the smiths had refused to maintain it, and the dusters had instead built a sort of switchbacked staircase through the elevator shaft down to our level. Before I let them inside, I paused and said to Alistair, "You'd better wear your helmet. The ceilings are really low here."

"Thanks," he said, dropping his helmet onto his head. About halfway down the stairs I heard a loud clang and a grunt, and looked over my shoulder to see Alistair hang onto the railing for a second after having whacked his helmeted head on a beam. He gave me a wry smile and Morrigan snorted with laughter.

Emerging from the shaft, I made a beeline across the central square of Dust Town, ignoring the startled stares of its denizens. I was almost jogging now, every other step a sort of skip, and Rocky sensed my excitement, prancing along beside me and watching my face, trying to figure out what we were excited about.

We arrived at my house and I burst through the door, mouth open to call out a greeting, but the words died on my lips. The house was obviously empty. Everything was covered in dust and my family's few possessions were gone. A scattering of garbage and fresh graffiti showed that some opportunists had recently used it for crash space. Rocky pushed past me and began to snuffle the new smells.

I ran into the bedroom and back again, panic filling my lungs until I fought to breathe. Alistair was still standing on the threshold, bent over to frown at the scene. Zevran was out in the street, looking around with an interested expression, and the women were still clustered at the other side of the square by the stairs, apparently trying not to touch anything.

"What-" Alistair began, but I cut him off.

"They're gone! All their stuff is gone! Ancestors save them, they must be dead, where else could they have gone to? Beraht's men must have killed them to punish me for betraying him!" I felt my face crumple and ducked my head, covering my eyes. Alistair wrapped his arms around me and pressed my head to his chest, stroking my hair.

"Eh? Brosca?"

A familiar voice came from outside, and I pulled away from Alistair, wiping my face on my sleeve. I leaned out the door and looked around for the woman I remembered.

"Down here," she said dryly, and I looked down at the huddled mass of blankets tucked into the dark corner at the end of the street. "Yeah, it's me. You looking for your sister?"

"Yeah! Have you seen her?" I jumped down the front step and ran to crouch down in front of her. The formerly lithe and athletic professional burglar was now gaunt, her hair shot with gray and her eyes, once so clever and bright, were now guarded and fever-glazed. When Rocky loped after me and leaned down to sniff, she shrank from him and I waved him away, frowning. "What happened to you, Nedezda?"

"Jarvia happened," she said, her tone matter-of-fact. "Hung me out to dry when a dub went wrong. Guards caught me cracking Vintana's place, I looked for my backup and it wasn't there. I got lucky," she gave a laugh, followed by a wet cough, "they didn't kill me. Broke my knees instead."

"Stone take her," I muttered, then turned to shout, "Morrigan! I have a job for you!"

She sauntered over, eying the disreputable pile of blankets with distaste, and held out her hands from several feet away, closing her eyes in concentration for a moment. "I can tell from over here that there is little I can do. The wounds are old and well-festered. But..." She swung her bag off her shoulders and thrust it at Alistair to hold for her, rather than set it onto the filthy ground, and rifled through it until she found a green leather bag. "Here. More of what I gave you, remember? For the fever. 'Tis likely to cure your... friend... of any lingering infection, and her tuberculosis as well."

She rattled off a list of instructions for dosing and brewing, while Nadezda blinked at her in astonishment and I tried not to fidget too obviously. Nadezda seemed to know something about my sister, and I was trying hard not to imagine what it might be – for example, the location of the lava pool that had become her final resting place.

"I don't know what to say, except you're a right square cove, duster," she said after Morrigan had finished talking and stalked away, complaining of dwarven stink.

"No problem," I said distractedly. "Were you going to tell me about Rica?"

"Yeah, yeah. Sorry." She cleared her throat and spat. "'At's better. Your Rica got her big break, girl. She's shacking up in the diamond district. You can – hey, wait!"

"Thanks, Naddie! Feel better!" I shouted over my shoulder, already bolting for the stairs, Alistair and Rocky in hot pursuit.

The others had clustered near the exit, acting casual while backing slowly towards the stairs, even as three different packs of dusters gradually encircled them with unconvincing nonchalance. "Oh, for the love of the ancestors," I snapped at the lurkers in the shadows. "You'll be dead before you even see their gold. Greg, Zosh," I addressed the ones I knew by name, "you're not that stupid. Sod off."

Zoshi had the grace to look embarrassed as he slunk away, but Greghen's eyes blazed with fury when he recognized me. He didn't say anything, and I didn't wait to hear him, but gathered my friends and ran upstairs two at a time. Greg's brother was Bherat's bodyguard, I remembered. Sod it, I killed his brother.

On the way back through the Commons, we passed a brutish display of what passed for politics in Orzammar as two rival gangs, each supporting a different candidate for the throne, attacked each other viciously in the street. The guards broke up the fight quickly, but a bloody heap on the paving stones showed the grim results of the encounter. Morrigan snorted with disgust, and Alistair and Wynne looked shocked.

"They fight and kill each other while the Blight threatens to destroy their city!" Wynne exclaimed in disbelief.

"You would think they would be more concerned about their dwindling population than to throw lives away like this," Zevran noted, bending to examine one of the dead. "Aha! Not just fools, but rich fools." He palmed a jingling pouch of coins and sidled away before the city guards returned to clean up the dead.

"We will have to put a stop to this before the armies will follow us," I said. "They will be too wrapped-up in their vying for power. The nobles are always like this, though not usually so bad - they don't usually kill - but there's a reason why all the nobles wear chainmail, and it's not just because it's shiny."

The elevator to the Diamond Quarter was, naturally, working perfectly and spotlessly clean, an elegant mosaic covering the floor and soft blue lighting emanating from the carefully cultivated lyrium-eating fungus. When the elevator doors glided open, they revealed the immaculate street and towering stone palaces of the Diamond Quarter. I stepped out and now it was my turn to gawk at everything. While I was standing there with my mouth hanging open, I heard running feet behind and spun around to face the newcomer.


Orzammar! WHEEEE!

...*ahem* Thanks for reading, and especially for taking the time to review – your kindness is inspiring! Thanks also to mille libri, my fabulous beta, for reminding me that I'm not writing a thesis on the ecology of fungi.