Disclaimer:The Dragon Age world doesn't belong to me.

Chapter 10 – Shuns, Puns and Smoking Barrels –

At night, when the smiths' forges and the bakers' ovens stalled, when the spice and fruit vendors closed their stalls and the butchers' shops ceased to sell freshly fried meat and hot mulled wine, and when the daily fretting of the overall wet-dog-stinking populace finally mellowed, Denerim reeked of destruction. The poignant odor much resembling to that inside of a smokehouse lingered in the air, unmistakably reminding one of cured ham – a dish that was not likely to be popular in Denerim for the months to come. Charred roofs were to be seen all around. The river Drakon, which separated Denerim in two, lazily bore its blackened waters from the West Gate to the eastern end of the city, along the Alienage, pouring down in the Denerim Bay by the means of a wide estuary that started to shape from right under the Market Bridge. Here was the place where most of the silt and waste carried by the river's waters were dumped, due to the natural curve of the estuary, and, if the right bank here was filthier than the worst of cesspits as a rule, after the siege the stench and the infection had reached beyond any and all endurable limits. Further down the southern bank were the docks, which didn't add to the health condition of the place, overviewed by a guard tower that was also a makeshift lighthouse, the shimmering light of which could be seen from the bridge, as well as from mostly anywhere in Denerim. The Market Bridge itself had been hastily patched with a haggard lattice of timber beams and boards that seemed hazardous at best; beyond it, lay the northern part of the city, the merchant quarter and the workshops; the parts that had been most heavily struck by the spawn. The cobblestone that had once covered most of the streets had become a precious resource for the reconstruction of houses, and, while it wasn't unusual that whole front walls be entirely rebuilt in that fashion, the streets were covered in black mud, a thick mix of soot, dirt and filth that was reaching knee-high in the back alleys and kept rising, owing to the acid rain that had never quite stopped pouring from above altogether. The lasting shadow that the Blight had left in its wake was a kind host to thugs and scavengers of all kinds, who had moved in and settled, set foot and conquered, newcomers from the lesser parts of town as they were. Veiled within the darkness' bosom, the derelict houses around the marketplace had sheltered them well; the debris there held loot for everybody even a month and a fortnight after that which had struck them down.

It was these thieves and scavengers that Kallian was putting faith in to get things pushed in the right direction. She snuck closely to the walls, moving unseen and quiet through the Market District, noticeable only by the surprised gasps and hurried whispers she left in her wake. In each and every corner where these poor souls had gathered, snugly crammed into one another for heat, a single silver coin was thrown to drop out of the blue, creating commotion and stirring in their midst. The stirring became quarrelling, and the quarreling soon became brawling, such as, when Kallian made her way further, she left them all in a state of bewildered uproar. Then, a few words were whispered aside by hooded messengers who shook their heads knowledgeably, and a rumor grew as the hope-giving words stuck to everyone's lips, rising as the tide and pushing the mob out of their dens and lean-tos onto the Calenhad Bridge, straight on their way to the Royal Palace.

It was pitch-black, the darkness of the thoroughly clouded sky that hadn't cleared for a month and a half menacingly looming over the silent streets. The houses and estates here, in the Palace District, were quartered by shy inhabitants, reluctant to make proof that they were inside living, breathing, and perhaps having dinner in a quiet and discreet manner, wary not to attract unwelcome attention. Life was hard in Denerim, after a fashion, even for those who had something to lay on the dinner table, and none was too fond of making unwilling invitations to other denizens by being too blatant about their relative fortunate situation. That must have been a reason as good as any for not a one of these respectable denizens to do so much as to at least peak out of their windows when an blasting boom roared in one of the lesser alleys right behind the royal palace; nor did they do so as the noise of clanking weapons reached their cozy dining-rooms and chambers right before midnight. There was one thing that got them all out and watching, though, just before the guards showed up to restore order – the lone, shrill, voice of a woman, calling the battlecry that was still fresh in the minds of them all –

"For the Grey Wardens!"

All those who got out of their houses or jumped at the windows gnawed by curiosity could well see the sea of hungry men, women and children in rags that kept pouring from the northern side. Otherwise, the things happening right in front of their houses were not at all clear, except for the unmistakable roar of fighting; weapons clashed and shouting rose into the shriveling mist of the alley, but nobody seemed to know who or what they were fighting for - or against, for that matter.

Had anyone been watching only moments before and had they been in position to see, they would have had noticed the explosion of two barrels filled with oil to the brim in the apparently empty street; they would have had wondered at the three armored men that had jumped on their feet howling in horror with their undergarments ablaze, right in the middle of the fire, in the place that had seemed empty only a second before; they would have had seen a lithe elven woman clad only in shift and trews snatching a sword from one of the men and thrusting it deep in his shoulder, with the Warden battlecry on her lips, in the exact moment when the other end of the alley had been filling with people. Not in the least, the hypothetic witness would have had fallen back in awe of the savagery of the mob as it engulfed the scuffling group entirely and would have had melted in the surroundings to save their hide.

The city guard entered the street then, at about the same time as a dozen knights from the palace, led by Ser Cauthrien, emerged from around the corner. Some of the clearer heads may have noticed that a couple of cloaked rogues slipped away from the roaring mob, but none would be as bold as to claim that for sure in the aftermath. A voice from the back screamed -

"Look, the Warden!"

- and all heads turned towards the roofs following the pointing hand to see, but the figure that crept away was too far, too fast, and the darkness too thick for anybody to actually recognize her spot-on. The knights hacked and smashed their path through the crowd with the thick of their swords, and it took them only a few minutes to quiet the daring few who were stripping three fallen soldiers of their remaining pieces of armor, which apparently bore the signs of the Maric's Shield. Cauthrien herself kneeled over their bodies, stared at their faces and frowned. Then, as she rose, she snared the man closest to her by the collar.

"Tell me, what did you see?"

The man seemed beyond himself with fear as he stuttered -

"N-n-nobody…"

"What did you see." Cauthrien hissed ominously, oblivious to the question mark.

"S-s-sorry, ser…"

"You're useless to me!" She snarled, heaving the man back in the crowd. "Anybody seen anything?"

"The Warden!" a female voice shouted from the crowd. "There, where you stand!"

"I saw the Warden too!"

"The Warden! The Warden!"

Cauthrien wasn't listening anymore, hurriedly making way with her shoulders towards the place where she heard the first shouting.

"Who spoke?"

"She did." One man said and withdrew to the side, pointing over his shoulder to the left. But there were only a couple of men standing there, and an old woman, whose back was so bent by age that she most surely couldn't see a thing from where she stood. Cauthrien measured the crowd spitefully. There was not a one in their midst that could point her in the right direction. She turned to leave, her shoulders sinking slightly, when a tug on her forearm stopped her in mid-step.

"Help an old woman out of this crowd, please? Ser? I am blind." The old woman spoke with a trembling voice, and something was off about the way she uttered the words, like she had a horribly deformed jaw or lots of stones in her mouth. Cauthrien wasn't too eager to see the likely warps and alterations on the woman's face, especially after getting a glimpse of what she thought to be an empty eye-socket; she took pity of the poor soul, though, and grabbed her arm with a sigh, guiding her out of the pushing mob. The old woman thanked her and took her leave, and, as she took the knight's hand in a gesture of recognition, Cauthrien had the distinct impression that something was off – the woman's hand didn't feel elderly at all; more so, as the sleek, youthful fingers slipped a small piece of parchment in her palm. The mighty knight leaned on the closest wall for support and unfolded the parchment to read. This was all too confusing and obviously a stunt on the heads of them all – as she read the short note, her brow knitted into a fully-fledged frown, her mystification painted on her face for all to see. To make things worse, the captain of the city guard was in the back too, with his men, and he headed straight to her refuge as soon he spotted her.

"Ser Cauthrien?"

"Captain Kylon. Something you need?"

"Have – have you seen her?"

"The Warden is dead, captain. I have seen her companion taking her body away from the camp. You'd better concern yourself with setting this place to order." She tucked the piece of parchment in her glove for safe-keeping, barked a few orders to her knights, who were not to let anybody leave before they'd release every bit of information, and left in stride. There was nothing more she could do there before the small alley was cleared.

The Royal Palace stood high and mighty on the right bank of the River Drakon, like always. Although its stone walls were blackened and burnt, and big blotches of darken matter still smeared the best part of the piers, as no one had dared to touch such foulness charred as it had been, its halls, chambers and towers bore little or no signs of destruction; no darkspawn had lived to see the Palace inside during the siege. The desolation that roamed the empty halls of the ground floor had more to do with the army of refugees that had been sheltered there than with anything else. It would have been too much to demand from the more than two hundred souls that had stayed there for the most of one week not to touch anything, and though the austere decoration had never been much by a noble's standards, the few tapestries and pieces of armor in display must have been more than appealing for most – so it was, that when the refugees had left back for their homes, they had left nothing but their own mess behind. Most of the said mess had been cleaned and cleared; the broken armor stands and the shattered display cases – the inanimate witnesses of the damage that had taken place – had been left in place; the muscle power required to remove them must have been more useful somewhere else. For the few guards left behind to watch over the whole mess, though, it was clear that all that was left had but little importance. There was not much more anyone could hope to acquire in those barren halls.

Not the same could be said of the upper floor, altogether. With few exceptions, the first floor would have been buzzing with knights and elite soldiers, as most of it was the actual home of the Maric's Shield. Other than that, here was the Great Hall, where the Landsmeets took place, and the throne room, which was smaller and generally used for the less formal meetings and audiences of the Crown. The grey shadows of the somber walls lent the place an air of utter desolation, much reminding of the mess downstairs. As the good knights had been hauled in the street by the commotion, only a handful of them were guarding the empty corridors, still in their posts as bricks, and just barely more animate. If they noticed the quick shadow that passed them by at all, they gave it little attention.

Above of it all, one could find the private quarters of the King and Queen, and the ambassador suits - suits for the honored guests that protocol demanded be hosted in the royal palace. Here, too, the walls had been stripped of garments, and the display cases emptied, but, clearly, all of it had been the work of much more careful hands. The good were carefully stashed in boxes, like they were prepared for being delivered somewhere; the boxes were carefully stacked on one side of the narrow corridor that led to Anora's chambers, piled up to the ceiling. There were no guards on this floor. A small shadowy figure crept along the piles of boxes, treading carefully, but brisk with determination, through the deserted corridor. One door opened, and then closed with a soft thump, and it all went quiet again for a while.

Slowly revealing her face from the hood, Kallian massaged her temples thoroughly; it had been a long night, and it was far from being over. Then, she took a good look around, and set to work.

Anora's workroom was as bare as the rest of the building. White traces were left on the walls marking the places where tapestries used to be, and a scarcely furnished cabinet was host only to the Great Sigil, two bars of wax and a couple of cheap quills, among numerous patches where the traces of missing objects were clearly imprinted in the dust. The writing table was crammed with blank vellums and recent unopened reports, but these didn't catch much attention from the hurried visitor. She perused the writs quickly, lingering for a bit to read a scribbled note that may have been a draft of an order to Cauthrien. The note said to remove all valuables in the Palace, except for those in the Great Hall and in the Throne Room, and sell them as fast as possible – with the exception of the painted likenesses of the kings and queens of the house Theirin, and that of teyrn Loghain. Then, a willful hand had cut over Loghain's name with a single line. Anora had been cross with her father, it seemed – or, the Crown's finances were in dire straits, indeed. Kallian couldn't but acknowledge her determination; the Queen may have had shown malevolence towards her and her companions, but she seemed to care more for her people's well-being than her own comfort – after all she'd heard in the Alienage about the reconstruction of Denerim, Kallian had no doubt as to where the money from the royal coffers were spent.

Her nimble fingers made little work of the drawer's lock, which sprung open in a whim. There were stacks of official letters and reports too, but not the kind that Kallian was looking for. In all likeliness, the drawer of the writing table was not a secure enough spot to stash papers used for blackmail or the such. The bare walls held little chance to host a secret cache, and the credenza had no locks whatsoever. Kallian drew the Queen's chair and sunk in it with a sigh. The cushion was a bit uncomfortable, although it had seemed thick and welcoming enough at first. That was odd enough to get Kallian back on her feet to investigate, which she did. It was not without satisfaction either, as she found after a bit of prodding that indeed the thin layer of soft wool barely concealed a flat casket underneath it. Kallian snorted in silent amusement – to be literally sitting on Ferelden's secrets of the state like that, one had to be a royal arse, it seemed. The box was light, but large enough not to be easily concealed under one's cloak; however, picking the lock was far beyond Kallian's abilities, so she tugged it under, hoping that Leliana's skills were not hindered much by her condition.

The next several hours that Kallian spent with Leliana, however, were on the top of a roof that had a particularly good view on the West Gate. It was freezing cold, and the drizzly rain did nothing for the mood of a sleep-deprived, worn-out and drained Warden. The murky fog that was rising from the River Drakon crawled up the road ahead, engulfing the stables outside the city walls and muffling the sounds of waking workers. A steep rooftop in early spring was not the most comfortable of places, and the hours of keeping still and quiet had been long enough, not to count the unrelenting toil of the first part of the night. They were both huddled underneath the same woolen cloak, and it had helped a little; however soaked the blasted thing had become, it was still better than hours of endless rain pouring down directly on one's skin. Both their chins rose above the dented ridge of the slate roof, resting against one bent forearm, their leather gloves soaking wet. Occasionally, one of them would throw an arm around the other's shoulders, as comforting as it brought warmth to both. Both stiff and sore, each would try and quietly stretch a limb every now and then, careful not to disrupt the precariously comfortable position that the other seemed to have found – then the other would move, making way for another wave of cold underneath the dripping cloak – and then both would gather into one another for heat, brittle and shivering alike. Kallian was grateful that Leliana sat with her during this early morning vigil.

Their legs were thoroughly entangled, and that helped, but below their thighs and knees, the boots were too thick to let the warmth through. Kallian shifted and waggled her already numb toes, and a loose slate clanked menacingly.

"I could use a swig of White Shear right now…" she whispered to the wind.

Leliana chuckled.

"Me too. But it is not befitting to walk the streets in the early morning stinking like a brewery. More so in the Chantry, that would be - indecorous."

"Hmm."

Kallian stifled a yawn and drew closer to Leliana's body heat. Quiet fell again for a while, and the particular kind of torpor usual to mornings that followed sleepless nights came with it. Kallian spoke again, trying to keep sleep at bay.

"Why did you want to go back there?"

Leliana's brow was hidden in the crook of her arm. Due to her own weariness, perhaps, but she had grown of late into this habit of not exactly facing someone when she spoke - the habit of a blind woman, as Kallian was painfully reminded.

"Well… Somebody has to rein a crowd… lest they want the poor guys to forget why they're there, no?"

"You're mean."

"Non. Well, maybe a bit. You know it's true. And, I had fun."

Somewhere in the distance, a dog was barking. Kallian twitched her ears – soon, the working people of Denerim would start stirring and waking, walking down the muddy streets. There was not much time left.

"Still, that note to Cauthrien? Isn't that a bit too much?" Kallian asked again, after a while. She knew there was no reason to be bothered – except maybe that Leliana had put herself at so much risk, or that they had made a mockery of a loyal knight, who, if she didn't particularly like, she did at least respect and trust as honourable.

"I've yet to make a bard out of you… This is the way things are done. Believe me. What is the worst that can happen? Anora finding out that you're alive? She already knows that, at least now she will know to expect some retaliation if she strikes at you again, no? …Oh, and I thought you liked Cauthrien." Leliana added like an afterthought.

"Right. I actually did, up until Fort Drakon – wait – not in that way…"

Leliana stifled a giggle.

"Now, I like her – not quite as much – but much in the fashion that you like, say, Clarice Cousland." Kallian said, slightly annoyed.

"Oh. That."

Leliana's mirth vanished without trace, and Kallian knew she'd crossed the invisible line to – those things they never talked about.

"I don't loathe her overly much, though. Poor thing, it must be hard for her to find herself changed like that. I think I forgave her already." Leliana said and, though her strained tone put some finality to her words, Kallian shifted on the spot and tried to add something, but she didn't quite get the time to do so. The loose slate under her foot creaked again.

"You should stop that."

"Stop what?"

"Prying. Trying to get me to talk about it. Expecting me to break at every corner. That kind of thing."

"I'm not – it's just –"

"The Maker gives and the Maker takes it away. That's all there is to it."

That got Kallian pretty angry. The Maker's will wasn't the answer for everything. And, Leliana was bound to know better than that. She snapped.

"Stop acting like it's some kind of righteous punishment from the Maker himself!"

"And you should stop talking about things that you don't know!..."

Now, that was unexpected. She must have struck a very sensitive nerve. Kallian turned to face Leliana and pulled her into the closest embrace possible, given the circumstances. Leliana's cheek was wet, and beads of water dropped from Leliana's hair on her lips as she whispered in her ear.

"You didn't deserve it."

"You don't know any of it…" the answer came mildly and resigned.

"Shh." Kallian reached to kiss her, and she did. The loose slate, unfortunately, chose that exact moment to fall from the roof.

Leliana pulled out from the embrace at once.

"Hear that?"

A man was getting out of the house below, hoofing and swearing. Somehow Kallian doubted Leliana had meant hearing that.

"What?"

"Hooves."

The man below had apparently spotted them, as he started waving a particularly nasty-looking scythe.

"You! Get down from my roof!"

Kallian was too preoccupied with properly looking at the lone rider that had just left Denerim through the Western Gate. She got a glimpse of the Maric's Shield coat-of-arms, and she deemed it a sufficient proof.

"There we are. Cauthrien's messenger has left town."

Only then she turned her attention to the annoyed owner of the house.

"Oy! Don't frett. We're off!..." –she shouted, and in the next moment both her and Leliana were down and over the shabby fence, running full-speed. She caught the man's disappointed grunt before taking the first turn.

"Blasted rogues…"

Kallian snickered.

They stopped only at the Chantry gates, to catch their breath and smooth their clothes. Leliana smiled.

"Now, let's make the official appearance"

Then, they entered.

The Chantry was quite empty at that early hour; only one young initiate was treading the halls from one end to another, running some errands, apparently. Kallian stopped her, doing her best to look as friendly as possible, and spoke quickly.

"My friend here would have a message to write to the Revered Mother Dorotheea in Val Royeaux, if you would be so kind to help her with that. And I am looking for Sister Justine, to inquire upon some ancient manuscripts that I gave to her a while ago…"

"Of course. Your friend may come with me."

As Leliana left with the sister, Kallian listened to her steps fading away, muffled along the side corridor. The long night was coming to an end. As she massaged her temples lost in thoughts, only barely awake, she almost missed the silhouette that was coming her way.

"Sister Justine."

"Maker bless you! Warden, you're alive!..."

A.N.: So, this comes after more than a month... Phew! Winter holidays aside, I really took my time with this one... In my defense, I had absolutely no idea what this chapter would contain; when I wrote the last line of the previous chapter - the "use your imagination" one - it was as much a challenge for me as for any of you who read this. Well, this is it; I apologize for the delayed update, and hope you enjoyed this little bit of adventuring here.

LionHeart, I'm sorry that I didn't find the time (read 'strength/inspiration') to rewrite the dialogues - and other faulty parts - in the previous chapter(s). I tried to keep the dialogue cleaner in this one, though. Thank you again for your level-headed review. Also, this goes to you all who read, fav'ed, or simply enjoyed this story so far :).