Eight

The Atlantic Ocean

December 19, 6:30 PM

Garret had changed, and none for the better. Varric had watched his bartender closely after Garret had returned to work, noting the cold edge to his words and mannerisms that had not been there before. The young man did not smile anymore; did not laugh. Not even Isabela seemed able to bring Garret out of the dark stupor he had fallen into and, after a round of futile attempts, had given up even trying. The other prostitutes—who had once looked to Garret as a kindred soul, in a sense—now steered clear of the angry bartender, asking for drinks with lowered eyes and hushed voices when customers came a-calling.

As the weeks progressed, Varric found that his clientele was suffering as well. The word from the underground was that customers were looking for new places to drink—even going as far as to haunt infamous downtrodden dives—in an attempt to steer clear of Garret's glowering face.

Varric was loathe to fire the boy in light of his years of loyal service, but it had become apparent that he could no longer keep Garret in a position that required an amiable attitude, especially in the liquor business's current economy. So it was that in the late November of 1921, Varric called the bartender into his office and laid down the facts:

"You're gelding my business, boy," he said, blunt as always. "Our customers are getting fewer and fewer and word on the street is that it's thanks to that sour face of yours."

Garret snorted. "Is it my fault their feelings are so damn fragile?"

Varric's eyes narrowed as he levered his elbows on the desk in front of him, chin leaning forward to rest on the backs of his interlaced fingers as he regarded the young man coolly.

"I don't give a good god-damn about the tender emotions of these people. But I am trying to run a business here and if playing nice is what brings the clientele, then we play nice. Right now, your piss-poor attitude is ruining business and that is something I cannot abide by.

"Now, you have two choices: either you sit down, shut the fuck up, and listen, or you can walk your ass out that door right now and never show your ugly mug around here again. What's it going to be, boy?"

There was a war raging within Garret between his pride and his good sense. A thousand cruel insults flashed through his mind—as well as a few choice acts of violence he could easily commit right then and there. But in the end, through his anger, the thought of his mother came to the forefront and good sense won out as he sat, stiff-backed, in the chair situated in front of Varric's oaken desk.

"Good choice," Varric said as he leaned back into his own chair. "Garret, I don't know what happened to you and, frankly, I don't much care. All I do know is that you've always been a good, loyal employee and it would go against my personal sense of honor to throw your ass out on the street now. What I propose is a change in vocation: I want you away from the bar and working in the background."

"One of your thugs, then?" Garret asked sardonically.

"If that's how you want to look at it, then yes. You'll be my front man with Zevran. The Italian has been good to his word thus far, but I would be more at ease having one of my own people running the smuggling gambit with him. This could mean quite a bit of travel, you understand, and I will hold you accountable for any slip-ups. Is this an arrangement you could agree with?"

"Who will run the bar in my place?"

"Isabela."

It hadn't taken much convincing to get Garret to agree. As far as the young man was concerned, he needed some time away from the city—away from the drunken clientele—and Varric's arrangement even held the promise of a possible means to vent his anger should a job go sideways. Varric's choice of replacement had also sealed the deal for Garret since, despite his rebuttal of her calming tactics, Garret had never stopped caring about the prostitute and saw in Varric's designs a way to finally raise her from the occupation he knew she secretly loathed.

That had been nearly a month ago. Winter had laid full claim to New York since then, painting the congested streets of the city in soft blankets of white. It was a harsh season for too many—those left in the deeper slums with barely a roof to their names (others without even that)—but there was a certain grace to it as well for it was as if the cold bite of winter had the power to drive the worst of the gangs underground, at least for longer periods of time. No one wanted to be caught away from the relative warmth of their homes for too long and thus there were fewer pockets to pick; fewer crimes that needed committing.

There was, however, a certain disquiet that had settled over the city and seemed none the less abated with the oncoming of the colder months. The workers of New York—of the world, in fact—were growing more and more restless. Labor Union organization was on a steep rise as membership began to increase at a startling rate—startling, at least, to employers. For everyone else—for everyone who lived, day in and day out, in the bowels of a factory; who worked their fingers to the bone; who witnessed the squalor of the streets firsthand—there was no surprise, only a sense of inevitability. The people were tired and it was only a matter of time before their anger boiled over.

The tension of the city was lost upon Garret, however, who had left with Zevran on a ship to Portugal a few weeks before the first snow. Admittedly, Garret hadn't been completely happy with the new arrangement at first. The responsible part of him had fought against it: after all, who would look after mother while he was gone?

"My darling boy," Leandra had said when Garret had told her the news (or at least a close approximation of what his new job would entail), "you do what needs be done. Don't worry about me: I do have your Uncle, after all. Gamlen may be a bit of a miser, but he can be good company when he wants to be."

"But, well, with Carver and all, I—"

"Hush." There was a flicker of hurt in her kind eyes, but she quickly hid it behind a warm smile. "Your brother will find his own way in time. You must do the same. Who knows? Maybe some traveling will be good for you."

Varric had sealed the deal by offering to deliver Garret's paychecks to the house in the young man's absence. Mother would be provided for and, with her blessing, Garret had set foot on Zevran's ship and experienced the open sea for the first time since he had been a young child escaping the Great War in Europe.

Garret leaned over the starboard side of the ship, watching as a strip of land in the distance slowly grew larger and larger as the waves and wind carried them along. When their trip had begun, Garret had questioned his new partner about his use of such a small vessel. It seemed strange to believe that Zevran would have been able to transport much of anything in such a limited space.

"Ah, but you see, there's a method to my madness! For all appearances, we seem a normal fishing vessel, sì?" Zevran motioned to the netting and tools gathered on the deck of the ship. When Garret nodded, he continued: "Well, that is because that is what we are! Capisci?"

Garret blinked at him dumbly, then shook his head as if to clear it. "Um, I think you lost me."

Zevran laughed and clapped the young man on the back. "If we are what we appear to be, then there is nothing illegal to make the autorità nervous, sì? As for space, well, do not worry your head so. Vieni."

Garret followed the slight Italian to the prow of the ship. Zevran knelt down and slipped his fingers into a small crevice that was virtually invisible to the naked eye and, with some effort, lifted a section of flooring up, leaving a gap just large enough for a man to fit into.

"After you," Zevran said, motioning to the gap.

There was a squat wooden ladder just inside the dark space beneath and Garret started down it—only to find the edges of the hole quickly closing in around him the further he went in. Chest-deep in the hidden compartment, Garret was stuck. He glared up at Zevran who had fallen back on his rump as laughter shook his slender frame.

"Very funny, Zev," Garret growled.

"Mi dispiace, amico," he gasped out between bouts of laughter. "I was not certain if you could fit, but 'twas worth it to try."

"Yeah, yeah. Just get me out of here before I break your little hidey hole."

Once Garret was free, Zevran continued the tour of his incognito ship and within the hour they were sailing away. The Italian seemed more than happy to explain to the young man the mechanisms of his little smuggling operation. Garret tried stubbornly to hold onto his anger, but after a few days in Zevran's company he found himself smiling more, even laughing. Between his on-the-job training of how to sail a ship and the quiet nights beneath the stars as the rocking of the waves lulled him to sleep, Garret found that the trip had become a balm to the raw wounds he had been consistently scratching open for far too long.

Zevran had proved himself pleasurable—if sometimes infuriating—company; Bodahn Feddic and his son, Sandal—the Italian's skeleton crew—had also proven good companions during the long days of sailing. Bodahn ran his own small trading business on the side of his work with Zevran and was always trying to entice Garret with one of the many trinkets or baubles he carried with him. Sandal didn't speak much, but he was always smiling and crafting little bits of jewelry or machinery out of Bodahn's junk that easily matched professional grade merchandise.

Now, as he watched Portugal's coast swell in the distance, Garret found that he was at peace in a way he had never experienced. It had only been a couple of weeks since he had seen the skyline of New York and yet he found that he missed it little; missed even less the fair face that had haunted his dreams for so long (or so he told himself, at least).

"We should arrive in Lisbon within the hour."

Garret turned to where Zevran now leaned against the railing beside him. With sure, practiced movements, the Italian rolled a cigarette in his deft fingers and placed it between his lips before striking a match on the railing and lighting it.

"Lisbon, huh?" Garret said, staring once more at the approaching land. "Why not an Italian harbor?"

Zevran took a long drag on the cigarette before answering: "My homeland is not as welcoming as it once was, I fear. Besides, I have several trustworthy contacts in Lisbon and Portogallo is closer, sì?"

Garret nodded in understanding, choosing not to press the issue. They stood in silence for a long moment after that, listening to the gentle slosh of the waves against the hull of the ship and breathing in the tobacco-tinged salt air. Portugal crept closer and closer as Garret continued to tell himself that he wasn't running away from anything. He was merely…taking a break from it all.

Sure. Just taking a break…

Wheaton and Smithe's Textiles

February 16, 1922

3:47 PM

Carver winced as his baton met the skull of one of the "rioters" gathered outside of the textile mill, the impact of leather-padded lead on skull resounding with a wet crunch as the young man before him slumped to the blood-and-mud slicked street. He stared down at the unconscious rioter, watching as copious amounts of red began oozing out of a rather nasty-looking gash on the young man's brow. Carver felt his stomach turn.

Is this what I've become? A part of him wondered, but not for long as another rioter moved into his path—anger blazing in his eyes—and Carver was forced to defend himself.

John Wheaton and Leonard Smithe—the owners of the mill—had called upon the RIIB to help put down what they had described as a "deadly riot" that was threatening to dismantle their base of operations that stood on the outskirts of New York City's bustling hub of industry. It wasn't the first "riot" Carver had been assigned to break up, but it was certainly the least confrontational demonstration that he had seen to date.

Upon arrival, Carver had observed only a motley crew of shoddily-dressed men and women shouting angrily at the looming doors of the mill, some holding poorly crafted signs that said things like "WE ARE NOT ANIMALS" and "WORKERS OF THE WORLD UNITE." These people did not look like criminals; did not look like violent dissenters threatening the peace of the city. They looked more tired than angry; more poor than dangerous. There were even a few children mixed in among the throng: emaciated bodies clinging to mother's skirts.

Meeran—his loyal "investigators" following close behind—approached the group and started off with the usual formalities, demanding that the people disperse.

"You are all guilty of obstructing business," Meeran announced, thumbs casually looped in his belt as if this were just another cool afternoon. "Vacate the premises now and suffer no further repercussions."

"You can't treat us like this!" one man from the crowd yelled. "We have a right to be heard!"

"By the time I count to three, you lot had better be gone," Meeran continued, acting as if he were the only one speaking. It was a special skill he had, making it seem as if no one else existed so long as he was in charge.

"Tell Wheaton 'n' Smithe to come out thar own selfs!" a woman cried. "We on'y wish t'be 'eard!"

"One."

Several young men stepped up to face the investigators, hands clenched into fists.

"Go back to yer master, dog!" one snarled. "We won' be listenin' t' yer barkin' t'day!"

"Two."

Enraged, one of the rioters stepped up, hand cocked back. Carver tensed, fingers wrapped tightly around the handle of his baton. When the hand snapped forward, a glob of mud sailed through the air to splash against Meeran's freshly-ironed uniform. Slimy muck now covered the crossed-sword sigil, slithering down to drip onto Meeran's boots—boots that, as Carver knew, the man polished to a proud shine each and every night.

Meeran, who had up to that point been looking at a point above the group of rioters as if they were not even there, slowly lowered his gaze to take in the young man who had thrown the mud. There was a murderous cast to his cold eyes as he hissed the word that would begin the bloodshed, as it always did:

"Three."

Chaos broke out in the moments after that as the investigators—batons drawn—surged forward and began beating back the angry crowd. Carver had witnessed Meeran step forward to draw first blood: baton cracking deafeningly across the skull of the demonstrator who had dirtied his uniform. The young man's body slumped to the ground at an unnatural angle, legs twitching spasmodically. Carver knew he would not rise again.

The "battle" was over in a matter of minutes as the rioters, bloody and battered, began their retreat. Carver had one by the collar of his shirt, baton raised high and ready to strike. When he looked down into the young man's eyes, however, Carver realized the rioter was even younger than himself. Terror shone in the darkly-hued pools of the boy's eyes, pleading with him for mercy. It was in that moment that Carver saw his own image reflected back at him: the oppressor; the bringer of nightmares; the unjust one.

Carver's fingers released the boy of their own volition. He seemed too shocked to speak at first, but when he realized that Carver had no intention of pursuing he began blubbering thanks and "good graces" as he quickly scrambled back and away from the blood-splattered battleground. Carver's head bobbed numbly though he could not hear anything above the heavy beating of his own heart.

Is this what I've become? His thoughts asked again, eyes following a rivulet of blood that had made its way to the gutter and was now dripping through a grate into the sewers. Around him, his fellow investigators were sifting through the pockets of the fallen for whatever meager bits the poor blokes might be carrying.

"'Ey! Carver!" He looked up to where Horace was waving him over. "C'mere and lookit this!"

Carver felt his stomach churn when he recognized the still body Horace was searching as the one Meeran had felled. The young man's open eyes stared up at the sky, but Carver knew he did not see the clouds; did not see the evidence that winter was not yet over as the first snowflakes began to tumble to the earth.

Without thinking, his feet began to move. Horace continued to call after him, but Carver could not hear him through the ringing in his ears. He needed to get away, far as he could, and think—or not think—or anything so long as it was far away from the blood-soaked gutters and the glassy eyes of the dead.

For the first time in weeks, Carver thought of home.

Author's Note: I want to apologize for my Italian. I've been dabbling with the language a bit, but not nearly enough to be fluent by any stretch of the imagination. My main model for verb conjugation is Latin so I am assuming that Italian works in a similar manner (as far as translation), though that may be incorrect. But I enjoy Zevran the Italian and I want him to speak at least somewhat in his native tongue, so it is what it is.