Chapter Three

Night engulfed Nevarra City like a velvet cloak but the brothel remained as busy as ever. The business of sex and lust never slept after all. Nathaniel hated this brothel. Really, he hated brothels everywhere, but there was something worse about this one. The people went about their sordid affairs as they always did but there was an undercurrent of ever present danger that put him on edge. His fingers danced anxiously over his knee as he sat near the fireplace in the main room. Why the assassin feels the need to meet here of all places I'll never understand, he growled to himself. His eyes strayed to his commanding officer who was leaning casually against the counter speaking in undertones to the Matron. He could tell the Matron was reluctant to tell her anything.

Just like last night, he thought, and the night before. They had been coming to this establishment for three nights now, each time requesting to speak with someone they both knew was in the city. Each night they were turned away with another excuse.

"Wait and I'll go check again!" the Matron snapped and bustled off, casting nasty glances over her shoulder.

He caught the eye of his friend and grimaced, showing his distaste for their surroundings. It was met with a soft laugh. She knew he hated brothels; they had been friends long enough that there was little they didn't know about the other. She crossed the room and dropped into the chair across from him. "You'd think after all the times we spent together in these establishments, you'd have grown more accustomed to them," she said wickedly.

"It is impossible to grow accustomed to your companionship," he replied dryly, though humor sparked deep in his eyes. That had been a development over the years and was still one he kept closely guarded.

She pressed a hand over her heart, "My how you wound me with your words." She smirked at him and took a quick glance around the main room. "Nothing like the Pearl, is it?"

"I don't spend time in the Pearl, so I wouldn't know," he retorted quickly.

"Oh come now, it's truly not that bad! This one time I visited there and met this lovely young, pirate that taught me how to—"

With cheeks blazing Nathaniel leapt to his feet, "No! I don't want to know!"

"—Duel." Amusement was apparent in her grey eyes. "I was going to say 'duel'."

He looked as if he didn't believe her, but was saved from further embarrassment by the reappearance of the Matron. She looked angrier than ever as she shuffled down the stairs and marched over to them. "You will have to return tomorrow. He is out for the evening."

For all that she was a Warden Commander and the Queen of Ferelden she met the woman's snappy denial with a small smile and a nod. Even though she was careful to keep her identity concealed in other kingdoms, Nathaniel wondered over that sometimes. So many nobles were used to demanding things, buying their way with coin or threats. He had never once seen her play that card. He had never even seen a hint of a thought like that cross her face. As Commander of the Grey she could order the woman's obedience—though the results would likely be met with resistance—but she rarely imposed her rank over others. Despite all that she was an effective leader and even that description didn't do her justice.

"Thank you for your time, Madame. I will return tomorrow as you have requested," she said kindly.

Without another word she turned on her heel, nodded at him to follow, and the two disappeared into the street becoming nothing but two shadows in the darkness.

"That's three days now," Nathaniel commented once they were well away. The river was ahead and they slowed their pace as they reached it. "What's the point of this charade with her?"

He was startled by how grim her voice sounded when she finally spoke. "To see how deep her allegiance with the Orlesians runs." She looked around to make sure no one was within ear shot, though the rush of the river easily drowned out their hushed exchange. "Her establishment is well known for housing informants from both sides of the old conflict. If she is working for the Orlesians it could mean all of the information that filters through here is known to them."

"And if it is?"

Her eyes flashed dangerously. "Then we will take care of it." She sighed heavily and he was reminded that she carried much more on her shoulders then she let on. "We don't know what's going on at this point, but we can't risk it. I will not risk—" she cut herself off but he knew who she was thinking of. "We are blundering around in the darkness and I mean for that to change. I will not give in."

"You have never been one to give in, my dear Warden," a silky voice cut through the darkness and the two turned to the blonde elf strolling leisurely along the river towards them. "That is what is so endearing about you."

"There are many who would disagree with you, old friend." Her voice was soft as she stepped forward to greet him.

"Yes and the growing majority of them are dead so their opinion hardly counts, does it not?"

Cadhla only shook her head. Whether Zevran was joking or not would make no difference. He had his own way of going about things. "What have you found?" she asked, changing the subject.

It was worse than they had thought. The matron's ties ran deeper than anyone had suspected. Orlesian by birth, she had been raised in Nevarra after her father, a chevalier, had been brutally slain when Ferelden had overthrown the Orlesian occupation. A plan would need to be made and quickly.

"We can pull out our informants, but the Orlesians will quickly know that we are on to their schemes and may become even more paranoid. If it is possible to let them continue to feel their sources are secure then we will have an easier time of intercepting their information in the future," Zevran said.

Cadhla folded her arms across her chest, a small smile easing the tension in her face, "You have a plan I'm guessing?"

"You know me better than to ask that, Warden. I always have a plan."

O-o-O

The hard packed earth was no friend to her aching body. The red dirt had crusted around her lips in some cruel parody of the makeup that would have brought a higher price to those passing by the cage she had been stuffed into. She shifted and her bruised ribs protested making her cough and gasp.

"—sickly." She heard someone murmur. She knew they were talking about her. She must have looked a sad sight, underfed and hacking mercilessly. Hopefully no one would buy her for whatever reasons they bought other humans, and she would be awarded some reprieve.

"No serrah, 's just dusty in here, s'all," the rat faced man interjected quickly. His foot darted out to bang against the cage bars making her cringe. He leaned over menacingly, "Straighten up, you little bitch. 'Lot worse'll be done to you by us, then by dem folk. You can only hope to be so lucky as to be bought."

When she had been growing up in the orphanage her tongue had often got the best of her. After many nights with no dinner or scrubbing floors until her hands were raw she learned how to control herself, at least for the most part. Common sense demanded she stay silent. There were few better reasons than being locked in a cage at the mercy of strangers. Still sometimes even common sense failed her, as it did now.

"Can you speak more clearly, serrah, I can barely understand you," she retorted coolly. "One would think that a person who involves themselves in the buying and selling of goods would learn how to speak properly."

Did I really just call myself a good? Her mind scrambled to focus on the more pressing query her tongue had just thoughtlessly spewed. Did I really just mouth off to the man that has me locked in a cage? Yes, she had. She could have kicked herself.

She had to admit that his face turned amusing shades of crimson and then puce. It finally settled on something akin to purple as he grabbed the iron bars with both hands and shook the cage. "What did you say, you little bitch?" he screamed at her, spittle flying in every direction.

Oh shit, Madea, what have you done now?

Somewhere between her smart-ass retort and his spit shower some part of her had realized that she had no defenses so she might as well go down swinging with the only thing left to her. She wiped the spit from her face delicately and glared up at him. "I asked you to speak more clearly. I cannot understand you when you speak as if your tongue is too large for your mouth."

He screamed at her unintelligibly as he fished for his keys. Rage made him clumsy and he dropped them in the dirt more than once, which only fueled his rage as he searched for the iron pick that would allow him access to his prize.

"She has a mouth on her but she has spirit too. Many of my customers appreciate that in a lay." A woman's voice cut in above his screeching, "I will take her."

The voice belonged to a woman dressed in a ridiculous green frock. She had clearly led a life of some indulgence as she bulged from her decadent clothes that appeared to be several sizes too small. The cloud of perfume that hung around her like an obsessive lover was so cloying it made Madea gag.

"She isna for sale!" the rat-faced man shouted, shaking his keys at the woman.

His partner jumped in, shoving at the other man. "Yes, she is, madame. My friend here's just got a short fuse, is all." He gave the other man a push and snarled something at him.

"That little wench insulted me! She ain't getting nuffin' but a beatin' from me!"

The bigger man grabbed him by the collar and spun him around before sending him flying away, "You'll shut up and do as you're told, you dolt." He turned back to the woman and bobbed his head, "My apologies, madame. She's a bit of a spitfire, sure, but look at them eyes on her. Bright as sapphires, they are. The lads'll like that." He grinned, showing gaps where he was missing teeth.

Madea saw her fate flash before her; she would be sold into slavery and work as a whore to earn this woman more money for her finery and ridiculous perfumes. She would lead a short, brutal life at the hands of the patrons, for she would hardly hold her tongue and allow such things to be done to her without a fight. She would rather be dead; she would rather be in the hands of the templars.

"I AM NOT FOR SALE!" she roared. She had to convince this woman she wasn't worth the trouble. She lashed out at the man through the cage's bar, snarling like a wild thing. "YOU ABDUCTED ME! YOU HAVE NO RIGHT TO SEL—"

Her throat constricted painfully. A thousand tiny needles seemed to pierce every inch from her mouth to her stomach and it instantly felled her. She could barely breathe, let alone protest her fate as she lay writhing in the dirt.

"You see, there are ways to control her tongue," the woman's voice echoed in her ears. Her voice grew closer, but Madea's eyes were so full of tears that she couldn't see the woman peering down at her with cold, scornful eyes. "Seeing as she's temperamental and will need work to groom her and fatten her up I will give you twenty silver."

"But you said she was spirited, that the boys like that about a girl like her!" her captor protested.

"You will not get a better offer. No one is going to take a filthy little brat like her when she's so repugnant," the woman replied. Her voice was unimpressed.

"She's at least worth thirty!" he countered weakly. He was outmatched by this woman and he well knew it.

"Fifteen silver," she retorted, lowering her offer. "I have precious little patience for scum like you and I can certainly take my business elsewhere."

There was a painfully long silence before the harsh rasp of metal told Madea he was opening the door to her cage. That was a bad sign. It could only mean one thing.

"Sold."