Chapter 19: A Murder of Crows

Zevran paused to listen as the bells of Antiva City tolled midnight. It was done, the treaty had been signed and Antiva was now officially part of the Empire. In the governmental palace the plutocrats and Imperial ambassadors would be toasting their success. Imperial troops were likely at this very moment packed into transports headed for Antivan ports. They would not find a country as amiable to their presence as its leaders.

Zevran allowed himself a brief smile at the thought of what was about to happen, like a man who knew the punchline of a joke that hadn't been told yet. He lived for this. His pulse quickened with excitement as he slipped from shadow to shadow through the city's massive port. All legitimate business on the docks had ceased hours ago. The only people about now were vagrants, beggars, drunks, and of course, the city watch. Zevran avoided their patrols easily. Occasionally he passed one of the wharf's denizens who would shoot him a knowing glance or a rapid hand signal.

He settled into a narrow alley between two large warehouses and stared at his target. The Imperial warship was not the largest he had ever seen, but it was impressive nonetheless. Long and sleek, built for speed, its triple masts rocked almost imperceptibly as waves lapped against its hull. Six Imperial soldiers stood guard in three pairs along the pier, and Zevran spied more helmeted heads moving about on the deck. He estimated fifty to sixty sailors and soldiers were bedded down in the lower decks. A low whistle sounded from a few yards behind him, and Zevran responded with the countersign. He didn't hear the other man approach until he was standing over his shoulder.

"Is everything in place?" Zevran asked. The Ben Hassrath agent grunted as if the question had been a personal insult.

"My agents did their jobs," he said irritably, "All the drops are secure. If you Crows muck this up, it won't be because of us." Zevran rolled his eyes and looked over his shoulder at the other elf.

"You know, Gat," he said, "This saucy attitude of yours is very unbecoming. We are friends now, remember? You really should work on your bedside manner." Gat glared back at him.

"There's a difference between being friends and being allies, Crow, you'd do well to remember that." Zevran's face darkened and his tone turned suddenly icy.

"Yes," he said, "I'm sure you would do well to remember that as well." Gat scowled but said nothing in response. "Do you have what I need?" Zevran asked.

"Of course," Gat said as he removed a pack from under his cloak and handed it to Zevran. It was a small, nondescript canvas bag a little larger than a melon. Although clearly stuffed full, it was incredibly light. Zevran eyed it suspiciously as he weighed it in his hands.

"Are you sure this is enough?" he asked. Gat's dour expression turned into a grin.

"Trust me," he said, "It's more than enough." Zevran shrugged and slipped his arms through the straps, swinging the pack onto his back. "What do you plan to do after tonight?" Gat asked.

"Return to Skyhold," Zevran said. "The offensive is launching soon, and I have many agents in Ferelden that I will need to coordinate with the Inquisitor."

"Back to Skyhold?" Gat asked, "But then who will be in command of all this?"

"No one," Zevran said simply.

"No one?" Gat repeated, his brows furrowing in concern. Zevran chuckled.

"Think of it as a boulder rolling downhill," Zevran said as he clapped Gat on the shoulder, "Once it starts, it just keeps going. All it needs is a little push." Gat looked him up and down suspiciously and then shrugged.

"Then have at it," he said, "My orders take me to Par Vollen. Perhaps we'll see each other again."

"Of that I have no doubt," Zevran replied. Gat nodded and began walking away. Just before he vanished into the shadows he paused and looked over his shoulder.

"Good luck," he said.

Zevran watched Gat fade into the night and returned his attention to the warship moored across from him. It was time now, and he felt a heightened sense of things as his mind and body prepared. He felt the salty sea air blow through his hair, the drakeskin armor under his coat hugging his body comfortably, the familiar feel of the short sword and dagger sheathed at his hips. The rhythmic creaking of hundreds of ships and the gentle lapping of waves against the shore were the only sounds. Zevran pulled a bottle of Antivan wine from the pouch around his waist and looked up into the night sky. The stars were brilliant in their multitudes, and he took a moment to admire them even as they made him feel small under their gaze.

"Dear Maker," Zevran whispered, "I have never asked you for anything, and I am not even sure you are up there. But if you are, grant me this one favor: Just stay out of our way." Zevran grinned and touched two fingers to his eyebrow in a salute, then he pulled the cork from the bottle and took a long drink. He checked to make sure his tattered coat hid his armor and blades, and then with a lurch stumbled out of the alley toward the warship.

The two guards nearest to him spotted him instantly, hands went to their swords and they tensed. Zevran swayed toward them, one arm held out to his side as he unsuccessfully tried to pour more wine into his mouth with the other. He tipped his head back a little too far, balanced for a moment on one foot, and then fell onto his back. He pulled himself up into a sitting position with a groan and began singing a bawdy tavern song, slurring his words horribly. The guards relaxed, their hands slowly moving away from their hilts as they looked at each other and back at Zevran, who was now swaying back and forth merrily to the off-key tune.

"You there," one of the guards said in a heavily-accented annoyed voice as the pair walked toward him, "This dock is off limits. Go on and get out of here!" Zevran looked up at their sneering faces with a dumb smile and held up his wine bottle. The guard rolled his eyes and grabbed Zevran by his collar and pulled him to his feet. "I said move along!" the guard said as he shoved Zevran in the chest. He let the momentum carry him backwards a few steps, swung the bottle in a long arc and brought it crashing down right on the bridge of the guard's nose. The man fell to the ground amidst shattered glass, clutching his ruined face. Before the other guard could react, Zevran was burying the shattered remains of the bottle into the man's throat, severing arteries and sending blood gushing everywhere. Before the man hit the ground Zevran's short sword was in his hand as he sprinted directly toward the gangplank of the warship.

The second pair of guards had been alerted to the altercation, one was running with sword drawn to intercept Zevran as the other raised a horn to his lips. Before he could blow it, an arrow thudded into his chest and sent him sprawling to the ground. Zevran met the other guard running full tilt and ducked a swing to his head. He slashed across the soldier's exposed thighs, pivoted on the balls of his feet as his sword stabbed upward behind him right between the imperial's ribs. He continued to spin and pulled the blade free as the man fell to his knees. The final two guards on the pier lay dead, pierced with arrows which were now falling liberally on the deck of the ship itself amidst shouts of alarm from the troops on watch. Zevran raced up the gangplank and stopped. A soldier barely five paces away looked at him in surprise and swung his heavy crossbow around to fire. The soldier's weapon was clumsy, Zevran's was not. With a flick of his wrist a throwing knife pinned the soldier in the stomach and sent him doubling-over onto the deck. Zevran quickly pulled the pack from his back and jammed it into the rail with a knife, then he leapt onto the pier and hit the ground running. From the rooftops of the two warehouses he had been hiding between only moments before, he saw several small flames spark to life. The flaming arrows drew streaks through the night sky, and Zevran spared a glance over his shoulder to see one of them strike the pack on the rail dead center.

There was a deafening crack and a blinding flash, the force of the explosion threw Zevran several feet. He maintained his balance and staggered back into the alleyway, clutching at the wall of the warehouse for balance. He looked back at the warship and stared in amazement. It was split practically in two, water pouring through a massive gash in its side. Flames spread across the deck and climbed the masts into the rigging. Cables and ropes snapped as the once proud ship began sinking beneath the sea.

Several black-clad figures with bows and quivers slung on their backs dropped silently to the ground around Zevran. They wore stylized masks of black feathers and red-tipped beaks that hid their faces. One of them stepped up next to Zevran and observed the carnage.

"It's begun then," the Crow said. Zevran held up a hand for silence.

"Not yet," he said in a whisper, "Wait." For a few tense moments the group crouched in the dark and waited. Then, from farther up along the wharf, another explosion tore the air, then another, and another. Fires sprouted in the night sky, along with the sound of screams, horns, and alarm bells. Zevran grinned as he heard another sound drift down from the city behind them: The sound of battle-cries and clashing steel. "Now it has started," he said as he straightened and threw off the tattered beggar's coat. "Now let's go turn it into a real war," he said with a devilish grin and took off at a lopping stride toward the city, the shadows of a dozen silent Crows following in his wake.

They entered the poor district of the city first. Ghettos filled with tenements to house thousands of dock workers and their families. The plutocrats did not much care what happened in this part of the city at night, and so the city watch patrols were fewer and lightly manned. Their grisly remains littered the streets and alleys. The men had not just been killed, they had been overwhelmed and butchered. Sloppy, not the work of Crows, but of the gangs of men and women filling the streets wearing makeshift armor and red sashes around their waists.

The Nationalists wanted Antiva to be a true Republic with elected leaders, but for years had been a force without any real power. When the Crows had learned of the treaty negotiations months ago, they knew exactly who to leak the information to. With a few well-placed agents, some smuggled weapons and hired mercenaries, the Nationalists had galvanized into a fighting force. An undisciplined and untrained fighting force, driven more by years of pent up discontent at the ruling merchant princes than any real strategy or long term goal, but they would be useful. If everything was going according to plan, similar uprisings were occurring all over Antiva at this very moment.

The Crows greased the wheels, taking out key targets, using gatlock explosives provided by the Qunari Ben Hassrath to sew mass confusion. It was working perfectly so far. As Zevran's small band made its way into the wealthier quarters of the city, the sounds chaos of fighting grew fainter, the number of bodies in the streets fewer. But these bodies were conspicuous. Strung up from street lamps or tied to mansion gates, signs that read 'Collaborator' or 'Imperialist' hung from their necks. These men and women were on a list, and one by one names were being crossed off.

Zevran's party thinned out as they got closer to the governmental palace until only he and three others remained. Alderas and Quinn were two of the most accomplished assassins in the guild. Brecca was unique in that he was an apostate mage, one of the few the Crows employed. They stayed to the shadows and moved silently along the wall of the palace. Its parapets were crowded with soldiers staring nervously down into the city, every gate and door was closed and barred.

Except for one.

A small servant's exit that could only be opened from the inside remained unguarded. Under a bush nearby, right where it was supposed to be, was another Ben Hassrath package containing four small clay bulbs with hemp fuses. Zevran handed two to Brecca and kept the other two for himself. For several minutes the four men remained pressed against the palace wall, their eyes fixed on the small door.

"Are you sure this contact is good?" Quinn asked nervously.

"She'll be here," Zevran insisted. As if naming summoned, the door creaked open. Zevran reached out and opened it the rest of the way and found himself staring into the blank face of an Antivan soldier. Zevran reached for his blade, but the man fell limply forward, a dagger between his shoulder blades. Zevran looked into the open door and saw a cloaked figure waving him inside. He motioned for the others to follow him and in a moment they were standing in a cramped storage room before a cloaked and hooded figure. A delicate hand pulled back the hood revealing an exotically beautiful woman with locks of dark hair falling about her face.

"They're in the west wing," she said without preamble, "Fourth floor reception chamber. Guards are everywhere on high alert, but these should get you by them easily enough." She motioned to two tabards with Antivan crests emblazoned on the chest, along with two helmets with eye guards that would cover half their faces, and standard issue falchions. "Once you reach the fourth floor of the west wing, they will be useless though. Only Imperial guards are permitted there, the ones in black armor that accompanied the ambassador." She visibly shivered.

"How many are there?" Zevran asked as he pulled the tabard on over his own armor and strapped the falchion to his hip.

"I only saw ten," she replied.

"Ten?" Brecca scoffed, "I'm not too worried."

"I think maybe you should be," the woman said, and she looked at Brecca with an expression that made the mage pause for a moment.

"Do not worry," Zevran assured them, "Hopefully they will be close to the ambassador." He waved Alderas and Quinn forward and they removed their masks as Zevran introduced them. "They are two of my finest men, Lady Montilyet. They will see you safely to the Free Marches. From there you can get transport to Orlais or Skyhold. I would suggest Skyhold, since I will be there myself, thus making it the most interesting place to be." He grinned and winked playfully, which caught Josephine off guard. "I would very much like to get to know you under less stressful circumstances." She stared at him and shook her head.

"Are you…really flirting with me? At a time like this?" she asked incredulously. Zevran shrugged and chuckled.

"It is what I do," he said playfully, then turned serious. "Thank you, Josephine, for everything." He took her hand and squeezed it and to his surprise, she squeezed back.

"This is for Antiva, Zevran, for Thedas." He nodded solemnly as she pulled her hood back up. "Please, do be careful." She turned and Zevran nodded to Alderas and Quinn, who replaced their masks and quickly ushered Josephine out the door into the night. As the door closed, Zevran looked at Brecca and nodded.

"Are you ready for this?" he asked.

"It's what we do," Brecca replied. Dressed as palace guards, the two men exited the cellar and quickly headed for the west wing.

They abandoned any pretense of stealth, relying instead on their disguises. They walked quickly and with purpose, adopting a military cadence to their steps. The ruse seemed to work. They passed several groups of Antivan guards, none of whom attempted to stop them or even gave them a second look. As they entered the west wing of the palace and climbed the winding stairs to the fourth floor, the flurry of patrols suddenly vanished. Everything was quiet, seemingly abandoned. Zevran and Brecca walked cautiously now, hugging the wall and checking their corners as they weaved toward the reception chamber at the far end.

"This is strange, right?" Brecca asked rhetorically. "So many important people in one place, and with the rioting in the city, you'd think there'd be half a battalion up here." Zevran nodded, it was very strange. According to Josephine's intel, the king and the heads of Antiva's seven most powerful families were up here, along with the Imperial ambassador. That was a lot of influence to be trusted to only ten guards, no matter how elite they were rumored to be. The duo turned one final corner, and at the end of the hallway stood the guards.

There were eight of them, standing perfectly still and rigid in a half circle in front of ornate double doors. They were an impressive sight in matching black heavy armor and ornate helms that covered their faces. Each had a long, curved sword hanging at his hip and a broad shield made of the same metal as the armor. As Zevran and Brecca stepped cautiously into the hallway, the guards drew their swords in unison and dropped into fighting stances. They didn't move or say a word, and for a few drawn out moments Zevran and Brecca regarded them curiously.

"Would you believe me if I told you we had a message for the ambassador?" Zevran asked nonchalantly. In response the guards started moving forward at a slow but deliberate pace, their feet falling in perfect time. "I see," Zevran said, "Unfortunately we do not have time to play this game. Brecca?" Zevran stepped aside as the mage threw out his hands and six fireballs sprouted to life in mid-air and flew toward the guards. They halted and their shields locked together with a thud. The fireballs struck and seemed to melt off the black metal like liquid. The guards unlocked their shields and continued forward. "Okay," Zevran said, backing up a few steps, "Plan B." He pulled one of the clay bulbs out from under his tabard. Brecca flicked his fingers and the hemp fuse lit up. Zevran whipped the grenade at the foremost soldier as hard as he could. It shattered against the shield and the resulting explosion sent the entire formation flying in every direction. "Come on!" Zevran shouted.

He and Brecca sprinted toward the double doors. Most of the guards were dead or in a daze, but a few were getting to their feet. Zevran drew his falchion and swung it back-handed at the neck of a soldier as he ran past. Sparks flew as the blade glanced off the soldier's black armor. The force of impact sent him sprawling backward, but he was on his feet again in a flash, charging straight ahead. Zevran slashed again and again, the soldier batting his swings aside with gauntleted fists, driving Zevran back to the wall. He ducked a savage punch aimed at his head, spun and slashed at the back of the soldier's knees. There was no metal there, only black leather, and the blade bit deep. The hamstrung soldier fell to the ground thrashing, unable to regain his feet. Zevran saw Brecca across the hall, engaged with two more of the soldiers. He had picked up one of their fallen shields and was doing the best he could to fend off a flurry of blows. Zevran tossed the falchion aside and drew his short sword and dagger. He crossed the hall and with a single slash crippled both of Brecca's opponents in the same way he had his own. One of them thrust his blade behind him as he dropped to his knees, and Zevran's own armor barely turned the blow. He swung his dagger around the soldier's neck, found the small space between helmet and breastplate and slit the man's throat. Next to him, Brecca beat the other guard into stillness with the shield before jamming his falchion under the armpit and into the man's heart.

Zevran and Brecca stood gasping for breath, Brecca bleeding from a deep cut to his shoulder. He nodded at Zevran and pulled a grenade from under his tabard. Zevran took out his remaining one and together they kicked open the double doors.

The king of Antiva and seven merchant princes huddled together in a corner. Standing in front of them facing the door was an older man, dressed in all black with a silver sash across his chest. Two more of the black-armored guards stood at his sides, swords drawn. He glared at Zevran and Brecca, his lips forming words that didn't come out. Then his eyes were drawn to the clay bulbs in their hands as the fuses caught flame with a word from Brecca. The ambassador's eyes went wide.

"I've been waiting to say this all night," Zevran said with a sinister smile. "The Antivan Crows send their regards."