Loghain sighed and settled further back against the pillows. He really should get up and do... something, but it all seemed so overwhelmingly pointless at the moment. He found himself looking at the half-full bottle of wine sitting on his bedside table from when he'd retired late the night before, and feeling strongly tempted to pick it up and having a drink.
Not a wise idea, he was sure. He was already drinking far more then he should be. Yet once the idea was in his head, it was hard to dismiss. His mouth filled with saliva at the thought of the sweet-sour tang of the wine in his mouth, how it would cut the foul taste from sleeping, how it would ease his frayed nerves. He clenched his hands on the sheet to resist reaching out and lifting the bottle. It would be so easy...
But today, as any day, he was not to be allowed the easy way. A thunderous knocking on the door to his suite made him jump. He rose out of bed, stalking out to the sitting room. "What is it?" he barked.
"Sire, there is trouble in the city," a familiar voice called. Howe.
He scowled, and unbolted the door, letting the man in. "What sort of trouble?" he demanded.
"The elves are rioting, sire. They've barricaded the entrances to the alienage... there were some, ahem... incidents... before they did so."
"Incidents?" Loghain asked sharply. "What kind?"
"Deaths, sire," Howe explained. "Mainly of the elves themselves, but there is word that there were humans caught up in the rioting as well. Bann Vaughan is rumoured to be among the missing; he is known to have been in the Alienage shortly before the riot erupted. "
"Maker's breath. All right, give me a moment to get properly awake and dressed, and then you can bring me up to speed. Send down for breakfast for me – for yourself as well, if you haven't eaten yet."
"Of course, my liege," Rendon agreed, and headed over to ring for a servant while Loghain returned to his bedroom. He skinned out of the loose drawstring breeches that he preferred as a sleeping garment, and took a moment to wipe himself down with a moistened cloth before quickly dressing. He'd have preferred a proper bath, but it didn't look like there'd be time for that just yet. What to wear... leggings and a gambeson, he decided, in case he ended up having to armour up and go deal with problems himself. He cast a regretful eye at the bottle still sitting on his bedside table. No. Best not to have his judgement clouded at the moment.
It had been a very long, tiring day. He'd spent much of the morning overseeing the deployment of troops to maintain order throughout the city. Word of the rioting and deaths had spread, and any elves caught outside on the streets had become targets for random violence. For a while in early afternoon there'd been an ugly mob gathering in the market, threatening to storm the alienage. In the end he'd had to order the gates closed and guarded, and impose a three-day curfew forbidding the streets of the city to all elves to give tempers a chance to cool. He knew he'd be getting flack about that from disgruntled nobles before the curfew expired; they wouldn't like that their servants couldn't be sent to market. They'd like it even less if those same servants were killed, but far be it from most of them to follow simple logic when it conflicted with their comfort.
He signed the last order that needed to be dealt with today, dripped wax on the parchment, and pressed the seal into it. Not his own seal, the wyvern of Gwaren, but instead the double-mabari of the crown seal. It still felt a lie every time he used it. Even when he's been regent for Cailan before Maric's disappearance – before Maric's death, he sourly corrected the part of him that even now did not want to believe his friend was gone from this world – he'd used his own seal, counter-signing documents already marked with Cailan's exuberant scrawl. A faint smile momentarily crossed his lips, remembering how focused the boy would be when making his own seal, the very tip of his tongue poking out between his lips as he dripped on the bright red wax, trying not to create too large or small a puddle before pressing home the heavy gold seal.
And now the boy, too, was dead. His hands clenched in fists, and he had to lean back in his seat a moment, willing his ragged breathing to steady. It would not do for the Regent to be found crying in his study like a homesick schoolboy, he sternly reminded him. When his breathing steadied he carefully picked up and neatly put away the seal, the stick of wax, the quill pen and sharpening knife and carefully re-sealed bottle of ink. He frowned as he noticed his hands shaking. Tried to hold them still, and succeeded for only a few seconds before a tremor ran through them again.
Wine. Wine would steady his hands. He rose and stepped over to the sideboard where an opened bottle of red stood breathing, filling the air with its seductive fragrance. He winced as muscles protested at the movement after having sat still for far too long in full armour; he'd put it on when he'd gone out to tour the market earlier and order the gates closed, and then had neglected to take it off again when he'd returned to the palace, thinking it would only be some short time before he had to go out again. That had been hours ago. He was hesitating between stripping off his uncomfortable armour or pouring himself that longed-for glass of wine when there was a knock at his study door. He winced. Of course there'd be yet another interruption.
"Yes?" he called out. "It's open."
The door opened and Howe stepped in, with that extremely sober expression on his face that usually heralded his delivery of some particularly bad piece of news. "Sire, I'm afraid I have bad news about Bann Vaughan. We've... found his body." he said quietly.
"Maker's arse," Loghain muttered. He closed his eyes, and squeezed the bridge of his nose tightly, drawing a single deep breath. "I suppose I should have expected that. Where? And how did he die?"
Howe hesitated, looking ill at ease. "I believe he died in the Alienage, though the actual body was pulled from the river. He'd... it looks like he was beaten to death. Badly enough that he was only identifiable because of the seal ring on his hand."
Loghain blanched. "Damnation," he said, flatly, and dropped back into his chair. Thankfully it had been built to take such abuse, and didn't even shift at the heavy impact of fully armoured body. Loghain, on the other hand, found himself wincing as the unthinking act drove padded edges against already sore flesh, and turned his incipient headache into a full-blown throbbing. "Well, that's just the cherry on top of this delightful confection," he said dryly. "Who stands to inherit the Arling of Denerim now?"
Howe hesitated. "Well, there are several possible claims, my liege. All, unfortunately, about equally valid. The Kendalls' line has run to only sons for several generation now, but prior to that there was a generation where there was one son and three daughters. Each of whom married into a different noble family."
"Oh dear. And what delightful news do you have to tell me about just which families can now, based on that, assert some claim for the Arling?"
"Their living descendants include Arl Eamon, Bann Sighard, that bastard of Maric's, and... myself."
Loghain blinked and stared at Howe. For a moment he almost... he winced, as his head gave an especially vicious throb. "Wine. I need wine," he said, and started to lever himself to his feet again.
"Permit me, my liege," Howe quickly offered, and stepped to the sideboard, pouring out two glasses of the rich red wine and bringing one to Loghain before picking up the second for himself.
Loghain tossed back half the glass in a gulp, grimacing at the taste, then settled down to sipping. "Sit," he ordered Howe, gesturing at a nearby chair. Howe brought over the bottle to top up his glass before doing so, leaving it on the desk in easy reach of both of them.
"Amaranthine, Highever, and Denerim... you realize if I recognize you as the heir, all our enemies will believe this was a plot to ennoble you even further?"
"Yes, sire, but I don't think you really have any alternative. Denerim is too key to leave unclaimed for long, and frankly, sire... you need my influence. I can sway the Banns to follow my lead. And I may even be able to talk Sighard into line, given some time – we are cousins, after all, even if I'm not as close with him as I was to Arl Urien."
Loghain nodded, settling back in his chair. "That's right, you were rather close with Urien, weren't you?"
"Yes. He and I had... many interests in common," Howe said, eyes going unfocused for a moment in apparently fond remembrance. "We'd developed a habit of my visiting with him at his estate any time I was in the city, which was about once a month on average. I have... missed him quite a lot, since his fall at Ostagar. I can't say that I was ever as close with Vaughan... miserable little shit-head, if you'll excuse me speaking disrespectfully of the dead, sire."
Loghain snorted. "You forget how much exposure I had to him when the children were all growing up. The motion is seconded and carried. Though I'd recommend we both show proper levels of grief – or at least regret – at his funeral," he added dryly.
"Of course," Howe agreed. "Do you mind if I have another? I... had to view the body. It was not a pretty sight."
"Go ahead," Loghain said, and when Howe offered the bottle, accepted a top-up of his as well.
By the time Howe finally left Loghain's office, he was feeling reasonably confident that the other man was going to have to be poured into his bed. He made sure to mention to a passing servant that the Regent might need assistance, then set off out of the palace and down the road to the nearby estate that had, until this morning, belonged to the Kendalls of Denerim. Now, thanks to a little finesse on his part, and the signed and sealed documents in his belt pouch, it belonged to the Howes of Denerim. Pending confirmation by the next Landsmeet, of course, but he was certain that vote would go in his favour, once he and Loghain had disposed of their enemies. Or at least once he had disposed of them for them, or otherwise brought their votes into line.
He'd always wanted an estate. The Howe townhouse in a nice district downhill from the castle was all well and good, but only the most important of the nobles had estates in the city, and the Howes had lost theirs some generations back following that mess when they'd lost hold of Highever. And now... he'd wiped out the Couslands, a long-time thorn in his family's side, regained Highever, and gained the family an even better estate in Denerim then their old one had ever likely been. It was something to be proud of, despite – or perhaps particularly because of – the nefarious means he'd used to pull it all off.
He let himself into the estate, already in the control of his own handpicked men, most of the old Kendalls servants turned off and his own trusted ones in their place, apart from a few he knew had been in Urien's trust and therefore worthy of his. He stalked through the halls with long-held familiarity, years of association with Arl Urien having given him an intimate knowledge of the place. He was pleased to see all of Kendall's mess already cleared out of the master bedroom, the room restored to the same quiet cleanliness and stately polish it had always had during Urien's tenure here, his own toiletries neatly arrayed to hand, his own clothing filling the large wardrobe and the clothes press.
He changed out of his armour, bathed, changed into some light comfortably fitting linen breeches and a loose tunic, then pushed past the heavy tapestry draping the wall at one end of the room. He found an anticipatory smile already lifting his lips as he unlocked the door at the bottom of the concealed staircase, and strolled through the familiar environs of the dungeon where he'd spent so many pleasant evenings with Urien, eventually reaching a door that only he had the key to, as best as he knew. Urien's original was undoubtedly lost at Ostagar along with his life and belongings.
He walked through the large, currently empty room, to the cells at the back, the ones Urien had used for prisoners whose presence here was so sensitive that even his most trusted guards and assistants were only rarely allowed to know of them. He stopped in front of the door of one of the two occupied cells.
"Good evening, Vaughan," he said, smiling down at the injured young man in the cell.
"Rendon! What is this! What do you mean, locking me up in my own dungeon... you're not going to get away with this..." the young man spat as he painfully levered himself to his feet.
"Oh, but I already have," Howe assured him. "You are dead, as far as anyone outside this room knows. And all this is now mine. Arling, estate, dungeon, and everything in it."
Vaughan paled. "What do you mean to do with me?" he asked hollowly.
"Nothing just yet," Howe assured him. "I'll leave you to imagine all that I could decide to do at some later date, if the fancy strikes me. Sleep well, dear boy," he said, and turned and walked out, being sure to lock the door again behind him.