He had spent the better part of two days in shackles, in a small room in the Tower where two guards watched him, refusing to feed him and forcing water into his face in the crudest fashion. He had kindly informed them that they were supposed to ask him questions in addition to the torture. They laughed it off.
"Look at him," said one of his guards, his accent clearly Fereldan. "He's the soddin' Hero!"
"Some hero," the other said, his own accent Orlesian. "You'd think he'd have better sense than to massacre twelve of the Empress' best bards in front of her."
"And two of our own," said the Fereldan. The Orlesian nodded, stood up and approached.
"Yeah. Two of our own," he said. And he kicked Lance in the rib. His metal boot hurt, but it wasn't enough to crack it. He'd had it reinforced ages ago, after one too many breaks. He kicked again. And again.
He laughed and turned to sit. Lance grit his teeth through the pain.
"It was three," he said. And the Orlesian stopped. He turned, regarded Lance with a frown. And then he laughed.
"Imagine the set on this fella," the Fereldan laughed. And then the Orlesian swiped him across the mouth with his steel gauntlet. Lance tasted copper, grimaced.
His escape was going on a little more slowly than he'd hoped. He was waiting for them to move him to a proper cell, a torture chamber, something. Once he was mobile he could dispatch his guards and escape before the alarm was raised. But they seemed intent on keeping him in the company of these fine individuals, locked away in this narrow, stinking room, shackles keeping him firmly grounded.
It wasn't his first stay in a proper dungeon, but certainly his longest.
He wasn't a fan, he'd decided.
He wondered how Velanna and the others were getting along with his extended absence. He hadn't exactly explained his position, so they probably thought he was just leaving them high and dry while he spent a few days doing what it was they thought he did.
Certainly "chained to a torture cell" wouldn't pop up. He didn't think.
There was a light rap on the door, and one of his guards turned to open it. He let out a low chuckle, something like a cat-call, when he saw who it was. A pretty woman, some years older than Lance but altogether very lovely. She carried a tray with her, and she smiled pleasantly.
"Hello, hello," she said with a thick Orlesian accent. She set the tray of food down for the guards, and they began to greedily eat from it. The Fereldan was staring quite blatantly at her rump.
She looked at Lance, smile going wide.
"Are you…"
"You bet your wonderful arse he is!" said the Fereldan, guffawing loud enough to choke on his food. Served him right.
"Ah, so then the rumors are true," said the woman, and she leaned closer. Her dark hair was loose around her pretty face. She seemed nice enough, but Lance got the unshakable feeling that there was something wrong about her. He recognized manipulators, he did it himself, and he could sense it in her.
"You don't know who I am," she said. And that made her giggle. She whispered to him. "I know a lot about you. My dear Leliana has told me."
And Lance's eyes went wide, his breath caught. Leliana had mentioned this woman, he was sure, though he'd never met her. And he knew enough to say that he really didn't like this woman.
"Marjolaine," he said. She laughed.
"Yes, that is I. So Leliana did tell you about me. How wonderful."
He grunted. He knew that she had hurt Leliana. And that made Marjolaine an enemy of his. She leaned closer still.
"Five minutes," she whispered. And she pressed her mouth against his, forced her tongue into his mouth. He groaned in resistance, but didn't turn away.
She stood and faced the two guards, who stared in slack-jawed bemusement. She shrugged, giggled.
"How many times do you get to kiss a living legend?" she asked. They exchanged nervous chuckles, unsure if this was allowed technically. They didn't notice Lance cough into his hand.
And Marjolaine threw him a last glance before sauntering out, the guards watching her leave.
"You are one lucky sod," said the Fereldan. "You know what I would do to a woman like that?"
"Hah! If you even knew where to put it!" the Orlesian laughed. They nudged each other roughly, laughing. Lance cleared his throat loudly.
"I am taking my leave of you," he said. And they laughed louder.
"I'd like to see that," said the Orlesian. And then he shut up when the shackles holding Lance down clattered to the floor.
Lance held up the key that Marjolaine had slipped him, and stepped forward.
The palace was all dark at this time of night, its occupants all asleep. A few great windows were still brightly lit, the servants and staff of the palace busily working at whatever menial tasks were left to them.
No one paid any attention to the dark, womanly figure maneuvering on the farthest spire of the palace, angling a crossbow at the Tower.
No one paid any attention to the same womanly figure, clad in black, sliding across a thick rope connected to the grappling hook she had just fired.
No, nobody paid attention. Not until that woman was crashing through the window at the very top of the Tower, rolling to her feet, drawing blades. The first guards to notice her were cut down very quickly, as were the next few.
The guards quarters were many floors below, and she knew that they would not come quickly enough. She hurried to the door where Lance was being held, marked by Marjolaine's red palm print. She cut through the guards rapidly, her blades moving faster than they could possibly fathom.
She was well-trained, a true professional bard. She regretted having to use these well-honed skills now, after she had left that life behind. But her friend was in danger, and she was settling an old score. The Maker would forgive this one transgression, if it were her last.
And she was soon entering the door leading to his cell, and was pleasantly surprised to see him putting on the clothes of his Orlesian guard.
"What took you?" he asked, his voice harsher and raspier than she recalled. Of course, he had changed since she'd last seen him. He was very much imposing – bigger, though he was not at all different, except for the scars that crossed him.
But then, she had plenty of her own.
"You know me," Leliana said. "I have to make an entrance."
He nodded to her, reached out to grasp her shoulder. He didn't smile, didn't share the joke. Instead he looked her in the eye.
"It's good to see you," he said. And he hugged her roughly. She awkwardly returned the gesture.
"Let us depart before they catch us," she said. And he was right behind her. Marjolaine appeared at the end of the corridor, wearing her bard's leathers. She waved with her hand, gesturing for them to hurry to the top of the Tower, where a window overlooking the grand Chantry of the palace awaited.
She had her grappling hook set up already, and Marjolaine went first, sliding the long distance down and across. She landed on the Chantry's roof with a roll.
Leliana gestured for him to go next. He did so, though he was apprehensive. He was afraid of heights.
He landed roughly, crouching. His leg stung a bit, but it wasn't anything he couldn't work through. He'd had worse. Leliana landed behind him with a small hop, a smile on her face that showed just how much she enjoyed the adventure. Like old times. For them both.
She cut the rope, leaving no avenue for pursuers to follow. By the time the troops were roused and searching, a pair of Chantry sisters and one stern Brother would be checking into the inn, meeting with the Wardens that anxiously awaited their Commander.