The entrance to Orzammar is in the furthest foothills of the Frostbacks, just before the mountains really begin. It's colder here than in the lowlands, and Marian's grateful for the layers and layers of clothing she's wearing. Hopefully it'll be warmer underground. Bodahn's told her about the cunning ways the dwarves have of heating and cooling their city. She's looking forward to seeing it.

The trail is well-packed dirt, wide enough for Bodahn's wagon twice over. They're making good time. There's a bridge ahead that marks the edge of Orzammar-claimed lands, and after that is the surfacer merchant encampment, Bodahn tells her. He keeps talking, though, on and on, and Marian thinks that perhaps he's more nervous about coming home than he let on. She's sorry for it, of course, but she'd given him plenty of notice. If he'd wanted to stay behind, then he should have said so.

They're approaching the bridge now. Alistair's drawn to the left side of the trail to allow another party to pass, and the rest of them follow suit, like little ducklings all in a row.

But instead of passing by, one of the men narrows his eyes, slowly dragging his eyes from Alistair to Morrigan and down on the line until he reaches Marian. "About time a Warden showed," he says, loudly so that his voice carries across the distance. He grins. "Loghain sends his regards!"

And now they've got weapons in their hands, soldiers all except a mage attacking far, far in the rear. Marian catches her in a cage as soon as she sees her, but the other mage somehow shunts it to the side and away after only a second.

Damn.

Marian casts a wild glance around at the rest of the battle – there's five of them, not counting the mage, and two more in the back with bows. Morrigan's taken one out of the equation by simply turning into a spider and sitting on him. He's almost sobbing as he pushes at Morrigan's round, bulbous body, but he can't get the right leverage to get her off him. He must be afraid of spiders.

Marian trades volleys with the other mage, probing for a crack in her defenses she can exploit, but her shields are tight and her reflexes good. They're in a standoff; it takes her far, far too long to think her way out of the problem.

Just because Marian can't get through her shields doesn't mean that nothing can.

Marian throws lighting at the mage's feet, and the ground beneath her explodes, sending dirt and grass and small stones everywhere. The mage stumbles a little, surprised, and Marian quickly catches her in a stasis spell. It should hold her long enough to clear the rest of the field and convince Morrigan to let go of her new toy.

That's easier said than done, though; the fight takes it out of her, and by the time Marian's managed to convince Morrigan that her soldier is dead, the rest have moved up the road to the merchant camp. Bodahn is already hard at work chatting with the neighboring caravan.

"They knew who we were," Marian says to Alistair, low to keep the others from overhearing. "How do they keep tracking us?"

"If we wanted to be inconspicuous, we should have left the qunari at home," Alistair says, jerking his head at Sten like she doesn't know who he's talking about. "And it's a big country, but there's not a lot of places we can actually go. Loghain must have figured out what we're doing by now."

"So we might be up to our necks in bounty hunters from now on?"

Alistair shrugs. "We can handle it, I think. You worry too much."

"Somebody has to," Marian says, unexpectedly stung.

"Hey," Alistair says, tugging on her arm to pull her closer. He looks a little concerned. "I didn't mean it that way. I only meant that enough trouble finds us without you borrowing more."

The problem is, he's not wrong.

A passing merchant points the way to the huge doors in the mountain that lead into the city of Orzammar. The mountain face is sheer here, rising far above their heads to dizzying heights inside of just a few feet. There are guards at the door, of course, but there's also a delegation of humans who are demanding entrance loudly, and in the name of King Loghain.

That's certainly a promotion since last Marian saw Loghain. He'd just been a teyrn then. He's been a busy little thing, hasn't he?

The guard at the door is willing to let her pass after she shows him the treaties, with Orzammar's royal seal at the bottom, but the delegation's head is a puffed popinjay with delusions of his own importance who demands her head on a silver plate. The guard orders them to take their disagreement elsewhere, and Marian is happy to go –

And when the self-important asshole decides to take matters into his own hands, she's very happy to hand him his head, instead. Waste not, want not.

The guards let them through without even a raised eyebrow at the bodies she's just left on their front steps. Once she's in Orzammar, in the heart of it dealing with their politics, it becomes clear to her why that is; bodies in the street are nothing new to the dwarves of Orzammar, over things as large as kingdoms and as small as smoked nugmeat on sticks.

She hates it. The ceilings press down on her like a physical weight, like the watchful eyes of the templars in the Circle; she can't forget for even a moment the sheer weight of all that stone over her head, tons and tons and tons of it. She can't rid herself of the idea that it might come crashing down on a whim. She hates Bhelen and his politics, and the sloppy way he goes about framing Harrowmont as if she won't notice, or worse, as if it doesn't matter if she notices; she hates Harrowmont and his naïve, deeply entitled talk of the way things ought to be. They're both using her and her desperation, and to her that makes them exactly the same.

Marian has deep, deep concerns about involving the Wardens in local politics, concerns that Alistair shares, but neither of them can think of anything else to do. They need the dwarves and their armies and their expertise fighting the darkspawn.

She even asks Zevran. He offers to kill one of them to make her life simpler. She regrets everything.

She sends Alistair back to Harrowmont and tackles Bhelen herself, hoping that she can use her not inconsiderable powers of persuasion to convince him to abide by the Assembly's decision, but he's stuck on some idea he's had about Orzammar's criminal element, and all he wants to hear from Marian is that she'll take care of them for him.

One look at Alistair's face tells her that he's had the same luck she has. "He wants us to do something about that gang in Dust Town," he says to her that night over two mugs of something foul in the tavern.

Marian hates Orzammar.

"That's what Bhelen wants, too." Marian stares down into her mug like it holds the secrets to the Fade and ancient Arlathan. Why can't anyone just say 'Yes, Warden, we'd be delighted to?' "I don't see another choice," she says, glancing up at Alistair. He looks tired. They've been given rooms down here, but they're meant for dwarves, and the beds are short, even for her. She can't imagine that he got much sleep last night.

"If what they're saying is true, the Blight is probably good for them," Alistair says, tipping his mug to watch the stuff – Marian is hesitant to call it ale – slosh around. He looks skeptical. "The darkspawn head up to the surface and the pressure's gone. They could even expand a bit into the Deep Roads, if they could hold what they took when the darkspawn come crawling back."

"We forget that they have to live with the darkspawn every day," she says softly. Marian looks around at the tavern. There aren't that many people here, not as many as she would have expected in a place of this size at night. The commons guard told her that she'd find the market area thin, but busy, and that appears to extend to the tavern, too. Those dwarves who are here are drinking like their lives depend on it. "I hate that we have to ask them to come and fight on the surface, too."

Instead of looking around at the tavern and the dwarves there, Alistair watches her. "But we have to."

"We do."

Alistair toasts her with his mug, clinking it gently against hers, and takes a larger swallow than she thinks wise. The outrageously disgusted face he makes after he swallows makes her laugh until her face hurts.

The hardest part of tracking down the gang is finding them in the first place. Bodahn professes not to know anything about it, though there's something about the look on his face – Marian's not sure she believes him. They split up again to chase leads; Marian gets sidetracked by a young dwarf who wants to study at the Circle, of all things. She thinks of the ruination of the Tower, of everything that happened there and everyone who died, and she almost refuses to send Dagna to that snake's nest.

But Marian would be the grossest hypocrite if she tried telling Dagna that the library isn't worth it.

In the end she sends Dagna off with a letter of introduction and enough funds to pay for safe passage in a merchant caravan, which are the only things moving between cities these days. Irving will allow Dagna to stay in a heartbeat. Marian knows him well enough to say that. Underneath all the politics is a man who remembers what it was like to love knowledge for its own sake.

She's stopped again, and again, and only sometimes can she help. And all the while the ceiling presses down on her, catching her out of the corner of her eye, and every time it startles her a little until she remembers where she is, and why the sky is gone. It's getting her back up.

Late in the morning, Marian saves a merchant who tips her off about Dust Town. She has to go all the way to Dust Town to find someone who knows what the fuck is going on. It's not that it's so far in terms of physical distance, but the paradigm shift between the richer mansions literally next door and the absolute poverty is a little hard to swallow. Her companions arrive one at a time, summoned from all over the city by runners, but she immediately loses Leliana again to the dwarf across the way with a pile of nugs around him, and Wynne is talking to a very young, distraught woman with an infant.

Alistair turns the corner between her and the main entrance – she catches his armor out of the corner of her eye – and he grimaces. "Let me guess, this is where the poor people live?" He's got their purse, and with it Marian pays Nadezda off.

Wynne dips her hand in while Marian has the purse open, and something in the set expression on her face discourages Marian from asking any questions. She goes back to the girl with the baby. Marian wishes she'd known that's who the money was for; she would have made Wynne take more. This is why Alistair is in charge of the purse.

Now, where is she going to find carta members down here?

Completely contrary to her assumptions, there are no gang members here, not anywhere. They wander the alleys for an hour, sometimes talking to beggars who have nothing for them but cursing, and still no one even comes out of the woodwork to attack them.

This is so alien to her that she has no idea what to do.

In the end she starts knocking on doors; most of them don't answer, either empty or avoiding her, but the last door on the street opens at her touch. She finds the trouble she was looking for, and the key, and when the gang members beg for their lives, what else can she say but they're free to go?

At least she gets directions out of them before they disappear.

Using the finger-bone key, they're passed through the door they're directed to, the third door on the right. Jarvia's headquarters lie underground in a network of tiny rooms and unfinished tunnels. They're attacked every time they gain any ground by mobs of dwarves and archers and even a few Qunari – how do they not knock their heads in every tunnel? Marian wonders – and even an area with the huge spiders and small lizard things with frightening sucker maws full of teeth that the dwarves seem to have tamed.

Ew.

"You picked the wrong side, stranger," Jarvia tells her when they finally reach the heavily guarded door at the far reaches of the dungeon, miles and miles under the surface, buried in rock and lava and dead bodies. "It doesn't matter who's king, as long as there's a queen."

Marian tries, she really does, but Jarvia is spoiling for a fight. Her men explode into action. There are quite a few of them, and they are both well-practiced at their trade and used to fighting in a team. Jarvia is tough, and sneaky, and wickedly good with her daggers; she keeps Alistair on his toes, avoiding his heavier swings and slicing in with her daggers when he's even the least little bit distracted. Marian's got her hands full keeping Jarvia's henchmen at bay and thank the Maker that Wynne is there to handle the healing.

It won't be easy, Nadezda told her, and as always that was an understatement.

Jarvia presses her advantage, pushing Alistair back one step, then two and three in a whirlwind of motion. Cú can't get in close to even nip at her heels. She can hear him growling in frustration all the way across the room. The sound has been known to scare grown men, but Jarvia ignores him, like it's just her and Alistair.

Too late, Marian recognizes the intricate dance they're doing. Alistair is being herded.

Alistair takes one more careful step backward and triggers a fire trap that sends him flying across the room. He's unconscious when he lands. His head lolls sickeningly. "No," Marian says, her heart in her throat; she's quiet in the sound and the fury that's brewing here right now, but Leliana hears her anyway.

"Wake up!" Leliana hisses. Only then does she realize she's been staring at Alistair's body on the ground, instead of doing anything – She crosses the room so fast that it feels like magic. Wynne is there already, putting out the fires that lick over his armor, hungrily looking for something that will burn, like flesh.

Marian feels nauseous.

Wynne is doing everything she can, which is more than Marian can do, so – she turns to scan the room for Jarvia. Cú is keeping her busy and away from the rest.

Wait. Is there enough room – Marian tries to estimate distances, and scale. It might work. It's a desperation move, but she's feeling desperate. If Cú can hold Jarvia where she is...

Calling the elements in such a small place, under circumstances like these and feeling the way she does – terrified, upset, infuriated – is a recipe for disaster, or demons, or both, but tactically she's never had such a clear space in which to do her damnedest. She thinks of the sharp, clear chill of the Frostbacks in that icy temple behind Haven, the smell of snow and the howls of gusting wind, and then she touches magic to her thoughts like tinder to a flame.

It's always warm down in the depths of Orzammar, so the first stir of the air, the first chill, has a few of the dwarves slowing to look around. By then, of course, it's too late, even if they'd known where to look – Marian's let loose the storm. There's no calling it back to her hands now. The winds pick up, and then the snow and the ice materialize out of thin air, blowing around the room in an endless circle that doesn't quite touch her where she's standing guard over Alistair, or Leliana across the room. It seems to swirl more aggressively around the dwarves, and most of all around Jarvia, who is shielding her face with one hand. Encouraged, Marian feeds it more magic. Now the dwarves are having noticeable problems moving, like they're fighting through true winter winds, but Leliana seems to have no difficulty aiming through the tumult. She nails several of them in the eye before Marian has to let go of the spell.

She takes a second to look at the destruction she's wrought: the room is wrecked, splinters of wood everywhere, the remnants of what used to be furniture or barrels or chests. Even some of the pillars are showing damage.

That's one to remember, then.

Jarvia is still up, but moving slowly, and it's nothing to set a cage of pain around her. It's too easy, in fact. Marian wants her to hurt for what she did to Alistair. She needs to hold herself hard here, because she's getting too emotional, and it's exactly what the demons feed upon. She leaves Jarvia to Cú and takes the time to make sure she finishes off all the other dwarves.

Wynne sits back on her heels with a sigh. She's tired, but not unhappy. "He'll be all right," she says to Marian's enquiring glance. "He's had a nasty knock on the head, that's all. He'll wake up when he's ready." Alistair really does look better; his armor is still a bit scorched around the edges, but the burns on the back of his neck and the edges of his face are gone, and his color is good. He could be sleeping.

"I hope that's soon," she says, laughing just a little, giddy with relief. "I don't think any of us are up to carrying him."

They loot the room while they wait; Leliana finds quite a nice emerald in the back room that Marian earmarks for a special project, but there's plenty to go around, and to recoup what they'd spread around Dust Town. The carta's been stealing from their own long enough. It's time they paid back what they owe.

When Alistair wakes, he just sighs a little, a quiet groan that tugs at her heartstrings.

"Morning, lazybones," Marian says, leaning over him. She wishes she had a smile for him, but she's still a little shaken. If he'd been truly hurt...

He groans again, a little louder, as he touches his head. "I take it we won? Ugh, my bruises have bruises."

"There was an explosion."

Alistair sighs and lets his head drop back against the floor. "Of course. An explosion. Why didn't I think of that?"

But he has to get up, because after all they are still in Dust Town and it's not safe here, not with spiders and lizard things and maybe more carta members coming around the bend. She chivvies Alistair into standing, and he groans all the while, but once he's up he moves better. They go out through the escape route, rather than backtracking all the way through the maze, which dumps them out in a little shop on the Commons.

They're a bit of a shock to the poor storekeeper – looking at her and her companions, dusty, bloody and weary the lot of them, Marian can understand why he orders them from his store immediately. She waves Alistair and Leliana off to talk to Harrowmont and goes back to Bhelen; he's far more suspicious this time, since he's heard of Alistair's efforts on Harrowmont's behalf, but she manages to talk him around.

She regrets it almost immediately.

"You want me to descend into the depths of the darkspawn-infested Deep Roads and find a woman you haven't heard from in two years. In the incredibly unlikely event that she's still alive, you want me to somehow bring her back from whatever she might be doing down there surrounded by darkspawn, and then convince her to appoint you king," Marian says slowly, packing her words with every inch of the incredulity she feels. She cannot believe the effrontery that it takes him to ask this of her. "And you want me to do this in two days."

"A tall order," Bhelen says. "But it's what I need, and you will have none of our armies without someone on the throne. And if this voting drags on too long, everything you've done will be for nothing."

Marian can feel a muscle in her jaw taut and flickering with the force with which she's grinding her teeth. When she feels that her temper's under control, she says, "I must consult with my fellow Warden."

He doesn't stop her when she turns on her heel and walks out.

Comparing notes with Alistair, it's clear that again Bhelen and Harrowmont have had the same bright idea. She wonders if someone is in both camps, feeding them ideas. It would have been ideal if she'd thought of it earlier, and so headed this off at the pass, but sadly prescience has passed her by.

Even if they wanted to – which neither of them do – there's no way they could accomplish all of this in two days. Leliana points out that even if voting starts in two days, it doesn't have to end there, and so Marian and Alistair trudge back to their respective factions to negotiate. Bhelen is oddly cheerful about agreeing to delay the voting as long as he can; Marian suspects that he has some sort of backup plan up his sleeve, but for once in her life, she doesn't want to know.

Then it's back up to the surface to inform the rest of their group about the change in plans. "I can't ask any of you to go with us," Marian says to her assembled companions when she's done explaining the situation. "We don't know what else might be down there, not really, but it's bound to be packed with darkspawn. Alistair and I have to go." She glances at Alistair, who gives her a ghost of a smile, which she returns in kind. "But it's far more risky for the rest of you."

Every last one of them bursts into speech, bless them; she can hear Leliana's voice peaking over the rest and even Zevran protests being left behind.

"It is not going anywhere without me." Shale's pronouncement carries the weight of its stone with it.

She's a little startled about it, actually. "Shale?"

But Shale declines to say anything else, and Marian is left with choosing the last person. She wants to keep the numbers to a minimum; she's not sure what the tunnels of the Deep Roads look like, but if they're tight and close she wants to keep their party small. The more people they take, the more supplies they'll have to hump. In the end she chooses Leliana; she'll miss Wynne's healing, but Wynne is too old for Marian to be comfortable dragging her so far into the bowels of the earth.

Morrigan turns away, sour irritation written in the lines of her face, and Marian hides a smile.

No one's sure how long they're going to be gone, and so they discuss several hypothetical situations and what Bodahn and the rest should do then; Alistair hands most of their money over to Wynne to use while they live on the surface, and Marian pins Zevran with several explicit instructions he's to obey while she's gone.

There is to be absolutely no murdering. None. Zevran laughs and calls her a spoilsport, and then he wonders why she worries.

Bodahn assures her that they'll be all right where they are, at least as long as the money lasts them. They're to leave in the morning, which means nothing underground but Marian wants to sleep one more night under the open sky. She hadn't realized quite how tight and tense her shoulders had been until she'd walked out of Orzammar's doors and her entire body sighed in relief.

She stands under the scanty pines that ring the merchant camp, staring up at the stars. She'd done this often when she was small, with her father pointing out some of the bigger ones and telling her the names they go by in the different countries. She's long since forgotten what the names were, but not what the moment felt like, cuddling into her father's warm side, his deep voice washing over her as she greedily soaks up everything he has to tell her...

Marian sighs. She misses him.

She turns and goes back to her tent, where Cú is waiting.

The next morning, Bodahn passes them a few supplies he'd managed to dig up. "It's enough for a week, or two if you're supplementing with other things," he says, creases in his forehead. "I seem to recall the Legions have something... I'm not sure what, but you might want to ask."

"Thanks, Bodahn," Marian says, grateful. "Take care of them."

They head directly for the entrance to the Deep Roads after that, but a dwarf steps into her path before they get there. He's a square, burly dwarf with wild red hair – he's the first redhead she's seen down here –and a short beard. He wears full armor, and a sword taller than he is, but many of the dwarves down here walk around wearing as much or more. Orzammar isn't safe.

"Stranger! Have you seen a Grey Warden hereabouts? I've been privy to the rumor that he... or was it she – you understand this was many mugs ago – was searching for Branka on Lord Harrowmont's own command." His voice is deep and gravelly, but also slurred. It sounds like he's had one too many already.

"We're Grey Wardens," Marian admits. The smell is truly appalling, something of old socks and dirt, unwashed person and stale alcohol. She leans back on the balls of her feet to get another inch of precious air between them. She wishes she didn't have to, but one look at her or Alistair ought to tell the dwarf what they are.

The dwarf gives her a long, considering look, a thorough and appalling up-and-down, then laughs right out loud. Marian wonders if he's trying to be offensive, or if it just comes naturally. "Well, if you're the best they've got, then standards must have fallen way down. But I suppose that would account for a human in Orzammar." He looks at her a moment more, weighing his options, then sighs. "Say, could I ask you a favor?"

Marian shakes her head. "I have no time to help you, I'm sorry. We're on something of a tight schedule." With that, she makes to go around him.

"Wait," he says, and in fact nearly bellows. A few curious heads turn, but when they see the dwarf Marian talks to, they turn back, most rolling their eyes or shaking their heads. This dwarf seems to have something of a reputation. "Name's Oghren, and if you've ever heard of me before, it's probably all been about how I piss ale and kill little boys who look at me wrong; that's... mostly true, but the part they never say is how I'm the only one still trying to save our only Paragon. And if you're looking for Branka, I'm the only one who knows what she was looking for, which might be pretty sodding helpful in finding her."

Wait. What?

"How do you know what we're looking for?" Marian asks, baffled. "And how do you know what she was looking for?"

"Tavern talk," the dwarf says succinctly. Given Orzammar and the way the dwarves like to drink, that is a reasonable explanation, Marian thinks. Oghren belches, and somehow the smell is worse, which was something Marian wouldn't have been able to imagine before and wishes she could now forget. "I know what Branka wanted and I know how she was looking. You, I assume, know whatever Harrowmont's men have dug up on where exactly she disappeared. If we pool our knowledge, we stand a chance of finding Branka." Oghren shrugs. "Otherwise, good sodding luck."

If his information is good... it's not a bad idea, honestly. If she can make him take a bath. Marian glances at Alistair, who nods.

"Fine," she says. "Talk."

"Oh no," Oghren says, frowning. He looks a little like an irritated bottle brush. "We're going. All of us. Together."

This is more of a quandary; Oghren is a dwarf, and with that sword on his back, he's obviously a fighter. He knows where Branka was going and what she was looking for. He's presumably got more experience with the Deep Roads than any of them.

On the other hand, she doesn't know him from a hole in the ground, and he might be crazy or a murderer; they don't have the provisions for five, so she'd have to send Leliana back; also, he smells like something that crawled into a distillery and died there. She does not enjoy the idea of spending who knows how long crammed into a tight tunnel with him.

But if it's between the smell that's crawling into her throat bodily or knowing where to look, then there's only one choice. And besides, probably Shale would enjoy popping his head like a grape if Marian asked it to.

Leliana is not happy about it, but Marian calms her objections before sending her back to the world, back to the others. "Keep them out of trouble?" she asks Leliana, squeezing her hand. It's Zevran she's worried about. He seems like the sort of person who gets bored. Leliana agrees and Marian turns back to Oghren instead of watching Leliana leave. "Perhaps now you'll tell us where we ought to go?"

For the first time, Oghren looks sort of uncertain. If he doesn't actually know... Marian is thinking about dropping him into Orzammar's lava pits before Oghren actually opens his mouth. "You should know that Branka was looking for the Anvil of the Void, the secret to building golems, which was lost centuries ago. The smith Caridin built it, and with it, Orzammar had a hundred years of peace, while it was protected by the golems forged on the anvil. As far as anyone knows, the Anvil was built in the old Ortan Thaig. Branka planned to start looking there, if she could ever find it. All she knew was that it was past Caridin's Cross. No one's seen that thaig for five hundred years."

Marian thinks about that. It's less of a lead than she'd hoped for, but she has other details on where Ortan Thaig might be from a girl she'd met in the Shaperate; it's much, much better than what she'd had before, which was nothing.

"How do you know all this?" Alistair asks.

"We were sodding married until she left me and took our whole house into the Deep Roads on her mad quest for the Anvil," Oghren growls. "It was a stupid move. If I'd been with her, she'd have made it back years ago. But I forgive her."

Somehow Marian thinks that Branka has no use for Oghren's forgiveness; if she left him behind while she took the whole rest of her house, that's a rather scathing indictment of either Oghren's ability or of her feelings.

"Putting that aside for the moment," Marian says. "I hope you're ready to go. I don't want to wait while you fetch your things."

Oghren snorts, eloquently conveying what he thinks of that idea. "If we're going, let's get moving," he says, turning toward the entrance to the Deep Roads. He has a few small packs on his back, slung low; she couldn't see them until he turned around. That answers that. "Once we're there, I should be able to pick up Branka's trail, no trouble."

Shale has been very, very quiet, following the conversation without any of its usual sarcastic, squishy remarks. She doesn't know it well, but that's strange.

With only a little trouble caused by Oghren's overlarge mouth, they're passed through the guard post at the edge of the Deep Roads, and then they're on their own.