The Keening Blade

Chapter 43: Killer Cats of Ferelden

While the Landsmeet recessed for a midday meal, there was much talk about the scurrilous broadsheet attacking Alistair's birth. Behind locked doors, a small cabal considered what to do about it: the King, the Queen, the brothers Guerrin, and of course, Loghain and Maude.

"Such a solemn occasion," Maude said lightly, looking around the table at the faces. "When it could really be an opportunity..."

Loghain had his own ideas on what to do about the crisis, and they mostly involved cutting important bits off impudent people; but if Maude could think of a way to turn this to their advantage, he was all for it.

Not all the faces could be precisely described as solemn. Anora was angry: lips pressing together whitely until they almost vanished altogether. Alistair was red with helpless embarrassment. Eamon was pasty and pudding-faced, clearly completely caught off his guard. Teagan—yes, Teagan was solemn. Vexed, too. He, of course, did not know the real secret of Alistair's birth. But as Maude had pointed out to Loghain earlier, the pamphleteers did not know, either, or it would have been the chief matter of their attack.

"Is it true?" Anora asked. "Alistair was never officially named and registered in Redcliffe?"

Alistair was thinking this over. "So if I was never really named, maybe I could pick out a new one. Something more impressive. 'Rex Stupendous,' maybe?' He noticed that Anora's face had taken on the aspect of a very large iceberg about to sink him into unplumbed depths. "Sorry. What difference does it make, anyway?"

"I think that's quite a good point," agreed Teagan. "What could the printers hope to gain by attacking Alistair? They named no better rival. It's all a fuss about nothing."

Eamon pretended to be calm, but one eye twitched uncontrollably. Loghain instantly knew that Eamon knew more than he had said about the birth. The arl admitted, "I always presumed that Maric had seen to it. When Alistair was entrusted to me, he was only an infant, but not a newborn. The mother died at the birthing, and there was no family, other than the daughter who left shortly after."

It all sounded very dodgy and unpleasant to Loghain, and doubtless even more so to Maude, who in the past had expressed compassion for Goldanna. Alistair's purported half-sister had been all of nine at the time, and was driven off with a coin and a harsh word. But Maude did not pursue that. She kept her counsel and her countenance, and only smiled.

"Well!" she said smoothly, "There you are! King Maric was traveling about then, looking after the kingdom. He picked up the baby and perhaps had him with him for a short while before he decided that he couldn't manage it." She gazed dreamily up at the ceiling. "I expect he was in Lothering when he decided to have Arl Eamon foster Alistair. Yes. Lothering. Such buffoonery on the part of the printer—or his employer. Of course, the Lothering records were destroyed in the Blight. Such a shame."

Teagan was a bit confused. "Why are you sure it was Lothering? It could have been anywhere!"

"Lothering is a good guess," Loghain agreed, dancing with his wife on the creaky tree limb of fantasy. "Maric was in the south at that time. He stopped at Lothering for awhile, but Ceorlic missed him. It was early spring, you see. Ceorlic only visited his bannorn in high summer. I suppose South Reach is possible. What are we to do? Check every Chantry in Ferelden for the record? That would only convince the Landsmeet that there is some dark secret here. Lothering will do, but even better is a shrug."

Alistair was slouching in his chair, looking miserable and harassed. Loghain grasped that he hated any discussion of his youth. Though he had never taxed Eamon with it in Loghain's hearing, he had let enough slip to make clear that he felt he had been badly treated, and that he thought what had been done to Goldanna was heartless. Which is was, whether or not the woman's mother had been Alistair's. Loghain paused. That there had been a Redcliffe maid, dead in childbirth, had clearly been a fact. Who was the father of her child? Maude had talked to Goldanna. Loghain considered asking his wife about it when they had a private moment.

Anora was scowling. Loghain sat up, startled. He had never realized that Anora could sometimes look like him. It would be quite horrible if her face stuck that way.

"A shrug," she mused, considering his words. "Yes. Maric had the child in his care briefly and saw to it. Who can be certain where? Lothering, very likely. The more important question, of course, is why was this attack made? Who profits from it?"

Teagan considered the matter. "It's clearly an attempt to create doubt and dissension, thereby destabilizing the country as a whole. I can't think of any particular Ferelden who has much to gain by that."

Maude smirked. "Therefore it's probably financed by a foreign power. Now," she said, smirking faintly. "What foreign power has the most to gain by harming Ferelden?"

"Oh, come on, Maude," Alistair reproved her. "I can see that Loghain's been a bad influence on you. Orlais? Why now?"

"Why not?" Loghain said sharply, his hackles raised by anything Chantry Boy said to dismiss the eternal Orlesian menace. "It's not the only incident to suggest they're renewing hostilities."

"Secret hostilities, though," Maude temporized, very persuasively. "Covert hostilities. We now have this Orlesian Knight-Commander in charge of the Circle. He's the one who forbade the Queen a mage when she was expecting."

"—And," Loghain sneered. "he informed our recent Grey Warden recruiting party that they need not return until the next Blight."

That thoroughly distracted the Arl of Redcliffe. Eamon rubbed his beard, suddenly wretched. "I have not had a letter from Connor since Ser Berengar assumed command. Did your people see my son when they visited?"

"Alas, no," Maude cooed, her face the very image of innocent regret. "Anders told us that the Knight-Commander's policy is to lock the mages in cells unless they are undertaking duties approved by him. It's such a harsh regime. So ungrateful, too, after all the mages did to defend Ferelden in the recent Blight."

"Locked in cells?" Teagan said, appalled. "Like criminals? That cannot be right!"

"And honestly," Maude said, dark eyes wide and guileless. "That's all we know, other than the testimony of our newest mage Warden. That young man was in solitary confinement for over a year, and by the end was not being fed regularly. It seems that our Orlesian Knight-Commander has a certain taste for cruelty. And really, who is to say him nay? He has absolute power over the mages, from the eldest to the youngest, most defenseless apprentices!"

Eamon's mottled jowls darkened. Loghain watched them in interest. They were quivering in rage.

"I have spoken to the Grand Cleric," Anora said. "It seems to be all of a piece with everything else going on within the Chantry at the moment. The Divine feels mages have been allowed too much freedom and that is time for a policy of harsher repression. We know that the College of Mages in Cumberland was arrested and imprisoned in various Circles around Thedas. My own personal Healer has disappeared and no one will reveal her whereabouts—or if she is even alive!" Anora did not bother to conceal her anger. "The Grand Cleric says that Ser Berengar was sent from Val Royeaux with very specific instructions—"

"No doubt!" Loghain snorted. "The Divine cannot have been pleased at the role of mages in saving Ferelden!"

Anora only nodded, not wanting to lose the thread of her thoughts. "At any rate, the Grand Cleric seems a bit intimidated by the Knight-Commander. He has the ear of the Divine. Perhaps you should speak to her, Maude. You have a gift for persuasion, and the Grand Cleric is fond of you."

"I shall," Maude agreed. "I shall have a lovely tea visit with her, and see what can be done. In fact, I shall lay the groundwork at the feast tonight. In the meantime, we should call in the high nobles and tell them about King Maric and Lothering and what nonsense this affair is. And that it's probably just the Orlesians making trouble. Captain Kylon is looking for the printer. He's quite clever. We'll know more when he tracks him down. In fact, we may be able to work with it."

Fergus and the rest of the arls were hastily summoned to join them. All of them had seen the broadsheet. They discovered the the King and Queen were relatively unconcerned by it, and the story was soon told. Maric had had Alistair with him for some time after his birth. Presumably he had been presented in the Chantry at that time, but Eamon had no idea where. If it was Lothering, then obtaining proof would be impossible. There was general agreement that this was a trouble-making ploy by some foreign power, and probably the one due west of Ferelden.

There was a knock at the door. "Captain Kylon, Your Majesties," the seneschal announced.

Looking as uncomfortable as only a man called before every important person in Ferelden could look, Kylon entered the War Room. Loghain was irritated to see how the man perked up at the sight of Maude. She actually winked at him.

Anora gave the man leave to speak, and an interesting tale he told them.

"Whoever did the work isn't one of our local craftsmen. The guildmaster said that some new people came to town last month with their own press, and rented a shop off the Market. The press was reported to the guild, and they sent some of their boys around to talk to the newcomers. Three men by the name of Van Pelgrem, so the guildsmen thought they were Marchers. They had a bit of an accent. When things were explained to them, they paid the guild fees right off without any haggling. The guildmaster says now he should have smelled a rat."

"Are they gone?" Alistair asked.

Kylon nodded. "I'm afraid so, Your Majesty. They might be hiding elsewhere, but the shop and the living quarters above were vacated. We found some of the print stock they used, so we're sure they were the ones. None of the woodcarvers was approached to make the picture, so we think one of the three strangers must have done that work, too. Quite a few of the sheets were spread around. I've had my men going house to house to collect them, but people don't want to give them up. Some places they've been tacked up on the wall, and we can see the marks."

Eamon was looking alarmed. "I had no idea there was such opposition brewing."

"Begging your pardon, Lord Chancellor," Kylon objected. "It's not like that. Folks like having a picture of the King. Most of them can't read the words, anyway. Some of them tore the writing bits off..."

"I knew it!" Maude burst out happily. "Remember, Loghain, how people got when you put up those 'Wanted Dead or Alive" posters of me? You said people used them to decorate their houses! And here they have a chance to have a nice little picture of our own King Alistair! Of course they want to keep it. Rather than causing bad feeling by searching the houses and taking the pictures, why not offer a trade?"

Alistair narrowed his eyes, thinking, "I'm not sure I quite understand. Trade what for the pictures?"

"The official royal portrait!" Maude enthused. "All three of you! Everyone loves a picture of a pretty baby. Yes!" She thumped the table "The King, Queen, and little Princess Rhoswyn. You should have an official portrait anyway, but this woodcut will be something cheap to produce and distribute. Post a few around town, and then give a bundle of them to the City Guard. If people want their own copy, they'll have to turn in the tatty old broadsheet."

"An excellent suggestion!" Anora concurred, clearly pleased with Maude. "Continue to collect the pictures, but make a record of who had them, and promise a superior replacement. Send the printer guild's best craftsman to me at once. I want this ready as soon as possible."

Leonas Bryland nodded. "That's all very well, but the Guard needs to keep looking for those troublemakers."

Fergus ran his hand over the back of his head, thinking it over. "They might have already left the city. Get a description of them and send it out around the country. Van Pelgrem? I wonder if that's their real name."

It was agreed that the impudent pamphlet would not be allowed to spoil the feast. Anora had planned it almost as minutely as her wedding. There had to be at least a dozen musicians—a scandalous expense, in Loghain's opinion. Some of them were obviously foreigners. Loghain peered at them suspiciously. It would be all too easy to hide weapons in the bellies of lutes and viols. It might even be possible to shoot poisoned darts from the taut strings of the tall harps...

"Don't glare at the harpers, Loghain!" Maude rebuked him cheerfully, catching his arm and settling her hand comfortably in the crook of it. "They're doing their best. This is all very gala, isn't it?"

Gold was everywhere: purple and gold. Hangings of those colors brightened the stone walls. Benches were strewn with cushions in the same color scheme. Anora had chosen gold and purple as the Crown's colors, and Alistair was colorblind enough or besotted enough to go along with her. Serving the guests were little pages in royal livery. Since funds did not stretch to dressing them in cloth of gold, the pages were in yellow and purple. A very bright yellow.

"Ow!" Maude complained, waving a hand in front of her eyes. "That's hideous! Is your daughter trying to blind us? I need a drink!" She gave a faint shriek, and pointed toward the middle of the long hall.

"Holy Maker! Loghain! That's a fountain.. of wine! No! There's two of them! Let's go get some right now!"

Loghain felt his blood began to boil. Did Anora have no restraint at all? Sure enough, there were a pair of white marble fountains spurting wine: one red, one white. More little pages in excruciating yellow and spendthrift purple were handing silver cups to the guest. Loghain was appalled. It would be a miracle if every one of those cups did not walk out the door with the guests. Perhaps he should stand at the exit and shake them all by the heels before letting them go home.

Maude was dragging him along, wanting to see the ridiculous fountains. Loghain had seen them before, back in Maric's day. They were white marble, rimmed with gold. Maric had bought them from some Antivan fraud when Loghain was away from Denerim. They had been used once, and then—ruthlessly shouting down Maric's protests— Loghain had banished them to the deepest storerooms, hoping that they would never again see the light of day. Now some fool had unearthed them and polished them up. The wine was pumped up from the cellars below by servants with treadles. Poor tired sods. The fountains were certainly popular, though. With any luck, some of the guests would drown in wine before they could pilfer the goblets.

"You know, I hope," he told Maude loudly, "how easy it would be for an Orlesian agent to use these devices to poison this entire Landsmeet and all its associated campfollowers."

"They're so pretty!"

Loghain felt it was once again time to put his foot down. "We're not drinking from some ludicrous fountain that the servants downstairs, at the very least, have been spitting in since the feast started."

"I suppose you're right," Maude sighed, unconsciously echoing Maric, "but they're very pretty all the same. And I still need a drink to sooth my poor scorched eyes."

"Fair enough." Loghain shouted at a passing page. "You there! Fetch us some unopened bottles of Antivan wine!"

Maude added, "The ten-year-old Treviso red!"

"Unopened," Loghain repeated, giving the boy his most menacing stare. "Unopened."

The boy fled, the hems of his gaudy surcoat flapping behind him.

"And hurry up!" Loghain shouted after him. "We know where you live!"

"But the fountains are very decorative," Maude said, admiring. "At least the red wine fountain is. The white wine is so golden it looks like pee, squirting like that."

A raucous burst of laughter behind them. Arl Wulffe and his wife had overheard her. Maude had the grace to blush, but held her ground.

"Well…it does."

At said fountain, out of earshot, Bann Loren was filling his elaborate silver cup. He took a sip, and rolled his eyes to heaven in delight. The Wulffes roared again. The Arl pounded the wall, thumping it like a drum.

Maude was laughing too, infectiously. Loghain granted her a reluctant smile, and then choked when Loren urged his pretty young wife to drink from his cup.

In between sobs of laughter, Arlessa Angharad took Maude's hands. "I heard you brought you little boy to Denerim! I'd love to see him! Could you come to our townhouse tomorrow? Olwen and Nesta adore babies. You should see them with Derek!"

There was a bit of babytalk, and the two ladies agreed on a morning visit. Wulffe seemed fine with all this, just as he was fine with his wife having two little girls from a prior marriage. Certainly, there was no harm in building alliances, even in the cradle. With a smile and a parting word, Maude dragged Loghain along, determined to mingle and make him mingle, too. He hated mingling. He glared at the festive noble riffraff, his formidable Mac Tir elbows at the ready, daring them to try to mingle with him.

A shriek of laughter rang above the music, almost bringing it to a halt. Heads turned.

It was that fiancée of Nathaniel Howe's, decked out in enough finery to sink a war galley… or to pay for one. Arlessa Delilah was with her, forcing a very slight smile.

"Poor thing," whispered Maude. "Delilah would like to pretend she doesn't know her, and is only standing next to this complete stranger by some bizarre happenstance."

Nathaniel looked cold sober, with emphasis on the cold. Mademoiselle de Launcet might be worth a thousand sovereigns, but Loghain suspected that her future husband would earn every penny of them.

He was not the only one who found her irritating. Bann Alfstanna said as much to her friend Bann Reginalda.

"…cut me dead, and then giggled at my hair! Doesn't the silly woman understand she has to make friends, and that this pretense of superiority isn't going to help?"

Reginalda laughed nastily. "Or the pretense of being Orlesian elite, either! 'Comte' de Launcet, my old boot! The family is just a cadet branch of lesser nobility that fled to Kirkwall when the head of the house fell from grace in Emperor Florian's time. They use the title, but my Archie heard they really haven't the right. Of course, 'anything goes' in Kirkwall, as they say…"

The Amaranthine group had found Fergus, and from the bows and curtseys, it appeared that they were presenting Nathaniel's betrothed to their overlord. Fergus, always strained in the presence of the Howes, was trying manfully to be civil to the young lady. He gave them an inaudible word and a curt bow, and then found some pretext to walk away.

They were getting closer. Loghain resigned himself to having to meet the girl, too. He felt some regard for the young Howes, and Nathaniel looked like he could use some support. Maude was slipping through the crowd, dragging him along. Mingling.

The Howes were looking their way. The de Launcet chit was actually smiling at Maude, responding to the charming, debonair smile that was undoubtedly on Maude's rosy lips. She even had the effrontery to look approvingly at Maude's gown. Then her eyes traveled up, up past Maude until they met his own. Her mouth fell open…

….and she giggled. Delilah blushed, and young Howe's face turned to stone.

Loghain looked at the girl more closely—at the wild, dilated eyes, and the aimlessly fluttering hands—and then grasped that she was terrified. He had seen fear too many times not to know it. She had probably been terrified since she came to Ferelden. No wonder she was making an ass of herself. Fear manifested itself in many ways, and none so irritating as hysterical laughter. Loghain grudgingly acknowledged that it was probably better than her pissing herself.

Delilah was already making the introductions. "…her Grace the Regent of Gwaren; the Warden-Commander of Ferelden: may I present to you Mademoiselle Barbarella de Launcet, daughter of the Comte de Launcet of Kirkwall."

Maude spoke right away; trying to prevent the girl from saying something stupid. "I had the pleasure of meeting your parents when I was last in Kirkwall. I hope they are well."

Another intolerable, reflexive giggle. "Oh, yes! They are well, and they spoke of Your Grace. So charming, so well-dressed. They had no idea that a Fereldan lady could be so civilized!" The girl's eyes widened, as she grasped what she had just said; and from her painted mouth issued another panicked shriek of laughter.

Maude graciously ignored the faux pas, and patted the girl's trembling hand. "You will find that rumors of Fereldan barbarism are greatly exaggerated."

"Yes!" the girl seized on that frantically. "Like the delightful man I just met…the noble Teyrn of Highever! He looks so imposing, but he is just a big cuddly bear!"

Delilah winced. Nathaniel stared at her, frighteningly expressionless.

"Yes!" Maude agreed cheerfully. "That exactly describes my lord brother in a good mood! A big cuddly bear! In a bad mood...well, maybe a big angry bear. Good mood is safer."

Babette de Launcet's eyes rolled white. "Your…brother…"

Howe snarled, "We told you! Try listening."

Maude was quick: very quick. She was so quick that almost none of the projectile vomit suddenly issuing from the Marcher girl's mouth touched her shimmering gown. Delilah was not so fortunate.

Nor were Loghain's boots. They were soft sueded leather, and the stink would never, never leave them now. Babette de Launcet bent double at the waist, still retching.

"My lord!" shrilled the page across the room. "Your wine!"

Half of the room turned at the words.

"Mo' win'?" One noble gentlemen said muzzily, slurping directly from a fountain. "Oh, good."

"Loghain!" Maude commanded, shoving the de Launcet girl at him. "Hold her up! Boy! Toss me the bottles!"

A free-for-all broke out, hands reaching, slurred voices shouting. The boy tossed a bottle high. It flew end-over-end, and Maude caught it with a juggler's aplomb. Three more followed. Maude tossed the first two to Nathaniel Howe, who, to do him credit, had clever hands.

"Let us retreat in good order to the ladies' salon." Maude proposed. "With our rightful booty and our prisoner." Loghain snarled, lugging the unwelcome, vomit-smelling, still-heaving girl along with him.

The maidservants on duty in the salon squeaked at the appearance of two men. The Marcher girl was settled into a chair. She looked appalling. A hasty wash removed the filth from her mouth and chin, but also removed her cosmetics, which left her face in two different colors. She shut her eyes, and moaned softly. Black eye paint coursed dark tracks down her cheeks. The bodice of her dress was likely a total loss.

Delilah was silent, gazing at her future sister-in-law like a particularly nasty sort of bedbug.

"Emergency visit," Maude said, waving breezily at the servants. "The Arlessa and her friend have suffered wardrobe malfunctions. Oh. There's some puke on me, too. Pity." With casual ease, she broke the top off the bottle and took a drink. "Treviso. It's Heaven. Loghain, let's go to Antiva. We could have a vineyard."

Nathaniel's eyes met Loghain's. He was clearly finding all this rather surreal.

The maids sponged and dabbed industriously. Delilah's gown was dark, fortunately, and the wet spots would not show much. Loghain would have stopped one of the girls from fussing over his boots, but he had no desire to breath de Launcet stink all night.

Maude's smile now was something of a grimace. She waved the servants out of the room. "Go have a nice drink somewhere, please." She turned to Loghain and Nathaniel. "Thanks ever so, gentlemen, for escorting us here. Delilah and I will see to our fallen comrade. You are welcome to the rest of the wine."

"I'll be close by," Nathaniel muttered to his sister.

They shut the door behind them, glaring forbiddingly at the crowd of ladies come to see what was happening. A general retreat followed, accompanied by eager whispering.

Nathaniel blew out a breath and said abruptly. "I'm marrying her in two days."

Loghain was a plainspoken man of war. It was a struggle to come up with something tactful to say. "In time she might not find us so terrifying."

"You think she's frightened?" Nathaniel mulled that over. "Possibly."

"Maude thinks her mother should have come with her. She felt it wasn't kind to send the girl by herself."

"The mother's an idiot. and drunk on poppy juice half the time," Nathaniel said flatly. "I'd be even more ashamed of her than I am of her daughter. I can't say I look forward to the kind of Howes that Babette's likely to spawn. "

"She'll birth some fine watchtowers and war engines," Loghain said. "Those will prove her worth."

Howe laughed mirthlessly. "And she'll rebuild the South Gate of Amaranthine, too. Yes, Babette has her value. Perhaps she can be trained, in time, not to puke on the rest of the world. That, or I'll lock her away at Vigil's Keep, if I must." He leaned back against the wall and shut his eyes. "My father and mother hated each other, you know. Now I understand how a father can feel nothing for a son."

That was too dark and painful for a response. They drank in silence. The door cracked open, and Maude peered at him gravely. Out of sight, a woman was sobbing. The Marcher girl, Loghain guessed.

"Could you ask someone to fetch Anders?" she murmured. "Pretty quickly?" The door shut. Loghain summoned a servant and told them to be quick.

Anders had been lingering on the fringes of the party, dressed in peacock blue and green. He came soon, a question in his eyes. Loghain jerked his head at the closed door. Anders slipped in, and silence fell once more.

Half-drunken and utterly drunken people passed to and fro, not noticing the two tall men in the shadow of heavy pillars. If the Orlesians attacked tonight, most of Ferelden's nobility would not be able to see straight enough to put up a fight.

"—I always knew the boy was a fraud!" hissed Bann Cagear's wife. "So now the nobility of Ferelden bends its knee to a stableboy!"

"—Loghain doesn't care," whispered her friend. "At least the stableboy was fit to get a child on Anora, which is more than Cailan could manage. If his granddaughter rules in Ferelden, what difference does the father make to a peasant like Loghain?"

Nathaniel raised his brows, almost amused.

Loghain knew that woman, too. It was Bann Stronar's wife Myrella. The bann himself seemed loyal enough, but here was his wife, speaking treason publicly. He stepped out of the shadows and gave her a long, silent look. Bann Cagear's wife squeaked in fright. Lady Myrella briefly tried to stare Loghain down, and then sniffed and stalked away, very pale.

"Is he, in fact, a fraud?" asked Nathaniel. "Not that it actually matters, at this point."

"It does matter to me," Loghain replied. "And he is not a fraud. Not that there is proof now, other than old men's sworn words and the truth of Alistair's face. That he was probably not presented in a Chantry does in fact mean very little to a peasant. The poor and the country folk are not so punctilious about Chantry rituals, especially when there is no coin to pay the priest."

"True enough," Nathaniel said easily. "And what other king can we have? The Couslands did not challenge him, and who else would have greater right?"

"It's nothing but the Orlesians making trouble," Loghain told him. "They've done it before, and now they're at it again. It seems a ham-handed attempt to foment unrest."

They stood waiting, mostly invisible, gleaning more gossip. Nathaniel did not even flinch when a group of young girls expressed their contempt for his betrothed. And they were not the only ones. A variety of ladies approached, wanting to access the retiring room and demanding to know why it was so guarded.

"—Who does she think she is?"

"—And her gown is hideous, by the way!"

As time passed, and he and Nathaniel drained a bottle of Treviso apiece, Loghain grew angrier. This is not where he needed to be, dancing attendance on a spoiled, drunken Orlesian shrew. He and Maude needed not just to hear what was being said, but to spread their own story. They needed to be calming concerns and sneering at foreign conspirators. Viciously, he hoped Howe did lock the girl away. He never wanted to see her again. Had Maude already sent her a wedding present? Any moment now, the King and Queen would be announced, and they would have to take their places at the feast. Maude should not be made late for that by this absurd affair.

At length, Maude emerged, full of secrets. She said to Nathaniel, "I think you should go in now." Howe frowned at her, trying to guess what was going on. Maude was not forthcoming, and the young man gave her another quick frown, and then joined his sister and his betrothed. A moment later, they could hear something heavy being slid in front of the door to keep out intruders. Maude gestured at Loghain and they departed, walking together along a recessed hallway. She looked about warily, no doubt searching for eavesdroppers.

Loghain spoke softly. "Is the girl ill?"

"Yes." Maude lifted her chin to speak directly into his ear. "She thought she was pregnant."

He pulled her into a corner and they talked, quickly and urgently, so softly that not even the mice in the walls might hear them.

Anders had examined Nathaniel's betrothed, and found that she was not pregnant, but afflicted with some thoroughly unpleasant ailments that somewhat aped pregnancy. Nathaniel would not have been the father, of course: he was too honorable for that. Her parents had thought her pregnant, too. With the family already shamed by producing a magical child—the son, now in the Kirkwall Circle—there was no thought of finding a competent mage healer. So first Babette had been doused with moon tea, again and again, hoping to abort the inconvenience. It had made her even sicker. That failing, the father had chosen exile for her, and offered her to the first barbarian Ferelden he thought of, and a whacking great dowry besides, to pay for taking their ruined daughter and her shameful bundle off his hands.

"Did they think Fereldans can't count to nine?" Loghain snarled.

"They thought we wouldn't care," Maude told him. "We're savages, remember? In the Free Marches, they still repeat that vile story about Queen Moira and her dog. I think they were surprised to see me wearing shoes."

"Who did she think was the father? Couldn't she have married him?"

Maude rolled her eyes, and told the sickening story with a bland expression that would attract no notice.

"She had no idea. Babette's been something of wild child. Really. She thought it might be an Orlesian noble she met at a party. She was incredibly drunk, so she's not sure. Someone named Baron Arlange. He's already married, so there was no hope there. And she wasn't sure. It could also have been some of the Baron's friends, or a man-whore she used to visit at a brothel there in Kirkwall. An elf, actually. Whoever she's been with gave her some pretty nasty keepsakes. Anders thinks he can sort her out, but it will take time. I daresay Nathaniel won't be consummating the marriage anytime soon, if he marries her at all."

"Oh, he'll marry her, all right," Loghain said, thinking of watchtowers and war engines, and the shattered South Gate of Amaranthine.

"Oh, well," Maude sighed. "I need a drink after listening to Babette's lurid confessions. They're almost enough to put me off lovemaking for life. Their Majesties haven't arrived yet, have they?"

"No. Anora's probably heaping on more gold."

"Very likely," Maude agreed. "Well, we still have a bottle left. Will you do the honors, or shall I?"

"I'll do it," he grunted, cracking the neck of the bottle smartly against a stone corner. A bit of wine splashed to the wall and floor, the red stains like blood from a wound.

No one had the nerve to raise the issue of the pamphlets in the Landsmeet sessions proper. Instead, the banns approached the high nobles in ones and two; in small groups and privately, feeling them out for their opinions. The united opinion of the great was that it was rubbish: rabble-rousing from the east. And even had there been the least doubt among them, none of them—not Cousland, not Bryland, not Wulffe, not Howe—none of them had the least to gain by unseating Alistair from the throne. Only Fergus Cousland had a better, more legal claim to it, and Fergus Cousland did not desire the crown.

Loghain was approached himself. The southern banns had taken to Maude, but had not known her long. Loghain did not like the idea of talking to her vassals behind her back, but he could not put off the banns. He hoped that if she heard she would kill him quickly, rather than slowly.

Within two days, just as Loghain had predicted, Nathaniel Howe wed Barbarella de Launcet at Denerim Cathedral. The bride, luckily, had a fresh gown unspoiled by her periodic nausea, and some fairly impressive jewelry. Much to Loghain's relief, the bride did not vomit in public, and there was not a giggle to be heard. As far as he could tell, in the course of the rather subdued dinner afterwards at the old Howe mansion, the new Lady Babette Howe was no longer permitted wine.

There were presents, of course: some of them rather nice. However, not all of Fereldan's nobility was in attendance. The Dragon's Peak bannorn contingent was conspicuous by its absence, but then, no one really expected Bann Sighard to get over Rendon Howe's kidnapping and torture of his son. Others had their grievances. The King and Queen attended the wedding, and made a brief appearance at the dinner afterwards. Maude had persuaded Fergus to go with her and Loghain, mostly for Delilah's sake, but he would not dance, and his present—an inlaid chess board with jet and ivory pieces— was not particularly generous.

"I thought of giving them a set of silver spoons," he said rather sarcastically to Maude, after two cups of wine, "but they already stole all of ours three years ago."

"Shh! I gave them a book," Maude said virtuously. "Books are always very proper. I gave them a lovely illustrated Chant of Light dating from the Divine Age. Completely unabridged. It has all the Dissonant Verses. Quite old and very valuable."

"You stole that," Loghain pointed out, reality swimming in and out of focus. "You stole that in Haven. I remember."

"Loot is perfectly acceptable as a gift," Maude countered. "It's something I earned on my very own. It has sentimental value, instead of being something boring I bought in the market."

"My present has no sentimental value whatever," Fergus grunted. "Lucky for them."

"Shhh!" Maude hushed him again.

It was, all in all, very much a sober and joyless business transaction, only in very expensive clothing and with very good wine. Perhaps too much wine. Still, everyone was careful not to get into a fight, and even more carefully left rather early. Maude wanted to get back to Gareth, and Loghain felt queasy at the idea of the usual bedding festivities. They somehow seemed to have been forgotten in all the confusion. He was profoundly grateful for that, and so, he suspected was Nathaniel Howe.

The dogs were happy to see them, of course, and Gareth demanded a late-night snack. After Clerys removed Maude's jewels and put them all carefully away, she was dismissed, so they could express their real opinions without fear of eavesdroppers.

"Who'd have imagined it?" Maude remarked, nuzzling the baby. "Nathaniel's wedding was heaps worse than ours."

Loghain slipped off his shirt, and splashed his face and chest with pleasantly cool water. "Personally, I liked our wedding. Especially the closing ceremonies."

"You mean looting Brother Genetivi's house? That was fun. And the sex later, too, of course. After we were alone and I wasn't being stuck full of pins, it was all quite nice. Poor Nathaniel has to sleep all night in the same bed as that dreadful poxy Babette. He probably won't be able to close his eyes! At least tomorrow he can get up and run his fingers through her thousand sovereigns. He'll feel better after that."

"The wretched girl was fairly subdued. Delilah's work? She's certainly toughened up as Arlessa. A good thing, too."

"Delilah's work...and mine. I threatened Babette, of course," Maude explained, quite unashamed. "I told her that if she made Nathaniel and Delilah look bad, I would hunt her all the way to the Void and I'd chop her into mincemeat, bake her in a pie, and send it home to her cretinous parents. Did you notice that she wasn't drunk at all tonight?"

"I take it Anders' treatments have lessened her tendency to puke on innocent bystanders."

"That too. I'm glad she didn't puke on the Grand Cleric. Her Grace takes a dim view of puke on her sacramental robes, as well she should."

"Delilah needs to marry," Loghain said. "That's all there is to it."

"She doesn't want to, you know," Maude replied. "She told me that once Nathaniel has an heir she wanted to step down as Arlessa and take vows. I think that would be an awful shame. We've got to find her a man."

Loghain ran a jaundiced eye over the currently available crop of unattached Ferelden nobles. It was a depressing prospect, but then, it always had been. "Easier said than done."

"I'll bet that if I could talk my friend Hawke into coming back to Ferelden, he'd do for her very nicely. Very attractive, very clever. Damned fine swordsman. Noble Kirkwall blood on the mother's side. Bit of a rascal, but what noble over twenty isn't?"

"I think we've seen quite enough of Marcher nobility." Loghain shuddered, picturing projectile vomit.

"He's Ferelden born. His mother is the one who wanted to go back to Kirkwall. I don't know how he can stick the place, personally. You like Bethany, remember?"

"I like Bethany," he conceded. "And Ambrose is not entirely the arse I thought he was at first."

"Alistair and Anora looked nice tonight. I think Anora looks much better in shades of purple that in all that gold. Alistair's beard is beginning to look a little more creditable, though it's too bad it's so gingery."

Loghain sneered. "It looks likes fungus."

"Now, now. It's a beard on a king, therefore a kingly beard."

He pulled off his boots and flexed his feet. Topaz demanded some attention, and he rubbed her ears, thoughts of Alistair making him recall something he had meant to ask Maude.

"That "sister" of his...Lady Goldanna. You've spoken to her about the birth..."

"Of course."

"So there really was a Redcliffe serving maid and there really was another bastard?"

"Yes. And I know what you're getting at. Goldanna believes the father of the dead child to have been the King. That's what everybody—including her mother—told her. I see no reason to disbelieve her. The unfortunate serving maid had the child, and Goldanna was told that both mother and child died in the birth. Then she was shooed away so unkindly. I've thought about it, too. Why would they bother to lie to an insignificant peasant child? My own guess is that they did not. The woman at Redcliffe and her child did die. About that time," she lowered her voice to the softest whisper, "Warden Fiona showed up with her baby and left him in Maric's care. You must have been gone at the time. Maric, for reasons we shall never grasp, kept the child under wraps somehow, and got him to Redcliffe. He and Eamon gave out that the child was the child everyone "thought" had died. Thus Eamon knows that the Redcliffe serving maid story is untrue. Does he know anything else? Hard to say. He might even know about the elf-mage-Orlesian Warden thing, but he has no more reason to blab about it than we do. And it seems more than likely that any of the old-time Redcliffe servants who knew the truth were killed during the zombie apocalypse there."

"That means," Loghain said, the thought souring in his mouth, "that Maric had yet another woman...this Redcliffe servant. It must have been shortly after he was rescued from the Circle. He came back, was reunited with Cailan, and the two of them went off to see the Guerrins. And Maric must have taken up with this servant at Redcliffe Castle." He scowled as he slipped out of his smallclothes. "He never could keep it in his pants!"

"Well," Maude turned to look at him, and smiled fondly. "He was on holiday. And some men look awfully appealing without pants."

"Maker's Breath! How many more bastards are out there?" It was a daunting prospect. He shook his head. Every time he thought he had finally grasped Maric, something like this came up. "Enough of this. I saw you talking with the Grand Cleric after dinner. Any progress on that front?"

This new subject made Maude click her tongue in vexation. She had spent a great deal of the past two days cultivating Her Grace the Grand Cleric, with mixed results.

"It's so exasperating!" She gave the baby a quick kiss. "Not you, gorgeous Gareth. You're practically perfect in every way. But the Grand Cleric, Loghain! I spent a chunk of yesterday with her. We had tea. We chatted. I talked her around about the mages and everything was perfect. Then that bastard Malsange gets at her after I leave, and he muddles her up again! I had to start from the very beginning again last night. I've really had it with him. I've given it some consideration, and I think he's got to go."

"Perhaps you should be working your wiles on the Orlesian himself. I saw him staring at you in the Cathedral."

"Don't be horrid." She rubbed the baby's back until he released a manly burp. Loghain laughed and took him in his arms, letting Maude wash and ready herself for bed.

So she did, with a running commentary about her Templar nemesis.

"He was probably thinking of ways to purge me of sin, mostly using edged weapons. He's one of those tiresome people I come across from time to time who prove insensible to my 'wiles,' as you so charmingly put it. Too stupid and too full of lyrium, probably. And there are limits to the kind of wiles I'm willing to use on him, after all. No. I think he's got to go. Then Her Grace won't be so difficult. At least I've just about got her convinced that looking for the Urn of the Sacred Ashes is hopeless. Here, give me Gareth and get into bed. I'll call Mairead."

He eased gratefully under the covers, smirking a little at Maude's gift for invention. The Grand Cleric had most desperately wanted to know the way to the shrine of the Sacred Ashes. Maude did not want to tell her how to get there, and was spinning mystical tales of spiritual preparation and a gateway that only those who did not want to use the Ashes for personal gain could find.

Maude called for the nursemaid, and the woman came in, yawning sleepily. She took the baby and managed to curtsey good night. Onyx gave Gareth a last sniff, and the dogs sprawled happily by the fire. Maude tossed aside her silken robe, and climbed into bed beside Loghain, her mind still racing.

"The Grand Cleric's not a complete idiot," Maude said, still thinking it over. "Nor is she so hopelessly self-righteous that she's doesn't see that gaining control of the Ashes would benefit her personally." She lay back among the pillows, her eyes closed, lashes long and dark against her cheeks. Loghain brushed his lips along the curve of her jaw, and wrapped her in his arms.

He murmured, "Enough of the Chantry for tonight."

"All right," Maude agreed. "She's not so bad, really; but he's got to go..."

"Enough..."

The council for the northern defenses met the next morning. Nathaniel Howe was there, too, surprising some of them. A bridegroom might generally be expected to skive off work for at least the morning after his wedding, Nathaniel, however, arrived in good time: bathed and shaved and dressed in his usual sober elegance.

Loghain studiously avoided an appearance of curiosity. They had much real work to do, and Loghain had no wish to know the gruesome secrets of the Howe marriage bed. Maude bustled in a bit late, but presented them with remarkably detailed elevations of her proposed watchtowers. They were cleverly designed to prevent sneak attacks. Nobody, Loghain supposed, knew more than Maude about being sneaky, so there were defenses here countering various kinds of assault that Loghain had never imagined.

"What's this?" Fergus grunted, turning the diagram sideways to figure it out. "That seems an unnecessary expense."

Maude explained it all. "You want the underside of the drawbridge shod in bronze like that. That way, when it's cranked up to seal the entrance, nobody can throw hand axes into it and climb up the heads to the chain's release mechanism."

"Maude, nobody could do that."

"I could. No problem. A solid oak barrier is not safe enough. With this, when the drawbridge is pulled up, you've got a bronze barricade: resistant to axes, swords, and fire. Termites, too. And look at the defenses for the jakes! I'm really proud of them. Nobody will ever be able to climb up that chute!"

Bann Alfstanna appeared to be very impressed; but then, she liked Maude. Nathaniel only nodded his agreement. He had a reputation of something of a sneak himself.

Loghain grimaced at the neat little picture of the downward-pointing blades, feeling a little wayward sympathy for the certain-to-be-shredded-as-thin-as-parchment fool who tried to enter where Maude did not want him to be.

"Do you want to try this out with Castle Mourne?" Fergus asked. "There's no moat, but the new door could be sheathed in bronze. I like the chimney flues, too. Not that I've ever tried to climb down one."

"I have," Maude said. "I got the idea in Kirkwall. They have lovely chimneys. You can crawl all around inside the walls in the big townhouses."

"You can get roasted, too," Nathaniel snarked.

"Not me! But whoever messes with these improved chimneys might. Or they'd be stuck, which would be even more dismal, in my opinion. But it's still possible to clean them. Look there."

Then they went back and forth over the precise site for the watchtower to be built on the Blackmarsh Peninsula. The more Loghain looked at these plans, the more he liked them, and the more determined he was that just such a tower would be built in Breaker's Cove.

A knock interrupted their deliberations.

"Beg pardon, Your Graces," the guard said. "But the general session's been called again. Such a to-do about what happened to the Knight-Commander…"

Loghain snorted, already hoping for the worst. "Berengar de Malsange? What happened to the Knight-Commander?"

"Dead!" The guard declared. "The Orlesian gentleman was riding along the hills by the sea, like he does every day here in Denerim. Fell off his horse and rolled down all the way to the rocks. When they hauled him out of the surf, his neck was snapped like a twig."

Bann Alfstanna cried, "How horrible! Maker turn his gaze of him!"

Maude was instantly compassionate. "What a terrible tragedy! Poor man! Fell off his horse, you say?"

"That's so, your Grace!" the guard agreed. "It happened like this: he was riding with some of his Templars, and just as they reached the Upper Hills this little ginger cat burst out of the underbrush. It was being chased by a wolf, see, and it squawled like a demon. Suddenly, it jumped up and landed on the head of Knight-Commander's horse with all its claws out. The horse shied and reared, and the Knight-Commander was thrown from the saddle."

"I hope the horse wasn't hurt," Maude said earnestly. "Or the poor little pussycat, either."

"The horse is all right, as far as I know," the guard told them. "Don't know about the cat. It jumped off and doubled back into the woods, with the wolf howling after it. It about froze the knights' blood, they said. Sounded like that wolf was…laughing."

"There's no call to make things worse than they are," Fergus said sternly. "Or repeat the wild ravings of men in shock. A terrible accident, and that's all."

"Certainly," Maude agreed. Her eyes were limpid pools of childlike innocence. Loghain was convinced that she knew all about it. She had been busy this morning, seeing people... giving orders? How long had she been planning this? A ginger cat…? He glanced surreptitiously around the room. No one knew about Anders' feline form... but what about Morrigan's shape-shifting? While Alfstanna wouldn't have a clue, Nathaniel had seen Morrigan as a hawk…and as a wolf...

Howe was frowning, but at the plans, so Loghain breathed easier. The servant looked like he had more to say, but Fergus dismissed him.

"We'll be in the Chamber directly," he said.

"Think of it…" mused Bann Alfstanna. "A mighty man of the Chantry brought to grief by a little ginger cat. The ways of the Maker are a mystery indeed."

They gathered up their papers and left the room. Maude said, "I must offer my condolences to the Grand Cleric at once. I wonder who'll replace the Knight-Commander at the Circle? I hope it's Ser Harrith. I've always got on with him so well…"

Thanks to my reviewers: Isabeau of Geenlea, EpitomyofShyness, Kira Kyuu, Zute, Judy, cloud1004, riverdaleswhiteflash, Tsu Doh Nimh, MsBarrows, Josie Lange, Phygmalion, Znime-StarWards-fan-zach, Jyggilag, JackOfBladesX, Costin, Aoi24, mile libri, Angurvddel, Enaid Aderyn, Jenna53, Shakespira, vertigomunchkin, Emily, butterflygrrl, Tyanilth, and Andronicus.

While I have not read the new book, Asunder, Josie Lange has told me enough about it that I must regretfully say that Wynne will have no further role in The Keening Blade. I had an interesting story line planned for her, but it appears she is at the Circle in Orlais. As Leliana became a Warden earlier in my plotline, she will not be filling the role she does in Asunder. She will not be joining the Seekers, no matter how devout she is.

I'm not seriously proposing a Hawke/Delilah ship. Maude's just dreaming. A Kirkwall adventure is coming up.

Oh, and the thing about climbing up a closed drawbridge on axe heads is done by Kirk Douglas in The Vikings. It's pretty cool. Maude could do that. No problem at all.