56. The Fine Art of Suicide Missions
He'd intended to come to Lothering to find information. The rumors spreading across the countryside claimed that such was the place where his targets had last been seen, so it had seemed a promising place to start. A couple coins slipped under a table here or a wink offered in the right direction there, and the locals would surely tell him everything he needed to know about the targets' numbers, skills, and, most important, destination.
But alas, it seemed it was not meant to be. The dead tended to be quite uncooperative, even to those as skilled at interrogation as the Antivan Crows.
Carolina scowled and stood, kicking the corpse she had been studying. He chuckled, and she turned a hard look on him. "You find something amusing about this, elf?"
Ah, that word. Most seemed to think it an insult, but he found it refreshing to be reminded of that which had so often given him a distinct advantage. "I was merely considering what such a display of temper does to your lovely boots, my dear. When yours are covered in gore, where will you find proper replacements in a country like Ferelden, hm?"
"What I do with my boots is none of your concern, elf."
"Ah, and yet my offer to help you remove them—along with the rest of your clothing—still stands, my dear Carolina." He winked lasciviously, if only to see her scoff. He did so enjoy provoking the hard-edged mage. She was often the most entertaining, and it wouldn't be long before they were both dead in the dirt anyway.
Ah, but not today, it seemed. Today, he was doomed to lead his charges through this ghost town. Zevran glanced around, once again sighing at the empty houses and torn bodies that littered the streets. Old blood splattered the cobblestones and what remained of the citizens were well into the decay process, indicating that this place had been overrun quite some time ago. A week, at least.
The lesser Crows were currently split into small groups, scouring the village for survivors that could be questioned. But Zevran knew it was futile. Any survivors of this massacre would have fled long ago. Lothering was a dead end.
Zevran couldn't resist chuckling at the thought. A dead end for dead men walking. Ah well, he could stand to wait a couple more days.
As for the lesser Crows who accompanied him, he could only assume that, as they were still following him now, they would not return to their senses in the next few days. Most of them were apprentices overeager to prove themselves, or newly promoted Crows with unrealistic ideas as to their own abilities. Such idiocy from all of them, to sign up for this suicide mission under Zevran's lead. Not a single one would have made it as a Crow. If anything, Zevran considered granting them all such swift ends a mercy.
Carolina stomped through the ruins, Zevran following at a lazier pace behind her. He inhaled the scent of death and decay, feeling this a fitting place to end his illustrious career. Too bad the Wardens he was hunting did not seem so eager to oblige his wishes.
As if summoned by the thought, a pair of young assassins came running from the direction of the highway. Zevran had set these two to watch the road for travelers while the rest of them picked through the town. It seemed they'd found something. Either that, or they wanted in on the fun picking through the corpses themselves.
"Master Arainai!" One of them called, and Zevran couldn't suppress a chuckle at the honorific the newer assassins had given him during their travels. He was certainly quite a bit above any of their levels, but he was hardly a Master.
"Master Arainai! You won't believe this! They're coming right to us!"
Zevran felt a twist of anticipation, but didn't let his face betray any of it. "Oh, and who is this?"
"The Wardens!" The apprentice and the new assassin skidded to a stop in front of him, their eyes lit in anticipation of what they no doubt thought would be an easy fight. "There are three of them walking right into the town now!"
Only three? Zevran suppressed his disappointment, reminding himself that even a single Warden should be enough to kill the entire squad of assassins. Assuming the legends were true, of course. "Then let us see what all this fuss is about, hm?" He motioned for the pair to lead, and he fell into step behind them, the three assassins soon disappearing into the alleys of the ruined village.
Zevran heard them before he saw them, as the Crows were winding their way through the yards of what had once been humble abodes.
"…come by sooner. We might have been able to stop this."
"What, and face down the entire horde? Anyway, you were a bit preoccupied chasing your new tail, so I don't see how that could have happened."
They spoke with one another, it seemed, completely heedless of the nest of assassins they had walked right into. Or perhaps the Wardens did know, and did not care, knowing their skills would easily overpower the assassins? Ah, but Zevran was rarely so lucky.
"You're right, I guess. It doesn't make the sight any easier to bear, though."
"You forget, lethallin, that these villagers had plenty of warning. They chose to stay here, rather than leaving to seek out safer lands."
He motioned for the apprentice and rookie to stay out of sight, then approached the voices on his own, creeping through the yards until he reached a fence that overlooked the main road into town. There, he crouched, obscured by bushes and watching as the trio crested the hill leading in from the farmlands. Zevran was surprised to see that these fabled Wardens who walked right into his snare were all elves.
"Not everyone is as easy to move as the Dalish, Meila," the one in the lead said, glancing over his shoulder at the woman. He was dressed in leathers, and Zevran's practiced eye caught the glint of wrist sheaths on both forearms. An interesting choice, that. The man also had a small lyre strapped to his back, the instrument unusual in its lopsidedness and the strange, vine-like carvings crawling up the sides.
The other two, however, were the ones that truly caught Zevran's eye, and he could see how even these Crow apprentices had recognized them. The guards who had survived their encounter with a group of escaped Wardens some weeks back had been most descriptive, featuring heavily among the stories two elves that bore such facial tattoos.
There was the elven woman with her red hair strung with beads and a bow strapped to her back. Zevran nodded to himself at that; the Dalish were notorious for their bowmanship, and rightfully so. He would have to warn Carolina to mind that one, as mages and archers rarely got along on opposing sides of the battlefield. The bedroom, of course, was another matter entirely, but such was the case for most things, Zevran had found.
The guards' stories, however, had mentioned nothing about the large white wolf that followed at the archer's heels. He suspected if the wolf had been present at the time, it no doubt would have featured in the tale, just as the giant spider and vicious mabari hound had. It was amusing, how unnerving some people found animals on the battlefield.
Zevran would have to use it as a disarming tactic at some point. Then, he recalled that he wouldn't get any such chance. Alas, such was the way of things.
The wolf's ears perked up, and it turned its head to growl straight at Zevran's hiding spot. The assassin could only arch his eyebrows, wondering if this would be his end here and now.
"Not again," the third Warden groaned. "Meila, can't you control that thing?"
"He is a creature of his own mind," the woman said calmly. "And a noble one at that. Would you ask a friend to be put on a leash?"
"It's a friend now? By the Fade… Fin, talk some sense into her! This isn't Hugo… this is a wild wolf!"
The man in front only shrugged and sent a tight smile over his shoulder. "I don't know, Kazar. I rather like having Fang around."
"Oh by the… you named it?!"
Zevran stifled a chuckle as all three disregarded the wolf's growling and continued up the road. How silly for them to ignore an obvious omen, but perhaps he was in a particularly apt position to appreciate the irony.
The third Warden gave Zevran the most hope. An elven boy by his description had also featured prominently in the soldiers' retellings… a mage, supposedly. Zevran had previously seen robes like this one wore: they were made of hide and fur, which Zevran recognized from his brief sojourn with the Dalish as the type Keepers and their apprentices preferred. So he was dealing with two Dalish elves, was he? Strange, the boy did not act particularly Dalish, but Zevran was not one to quibble over details, if it meant he was as deadly as the Dalish reputation merited.
Zevran dismissed the dual-wielder as a non-threat, but the two Dalish elves would prove quite interesting. Perhaps they would provide the end he craved after all. And if not… well, there were still other Wardens about. His end would come from one of them, certainly.
He slipped away, nodding to the pair of fresh assassins that still waited on his signal. The three flitted off into the village, collecting the others and preparing for an ambush. Zevran found a suitable spot next to the ruined chantry, stacked with plenty of crates and broken walls for his companions to use as cover. Several of them set out leghold traps in the obvious choke points, but Zevran knew such things would prove little use against a skilled archer or a powerful mage. And if these elves were Grey Wardens, then it was safe to assume that they were skilled.
Zevran made no attempt to hide, to the awed whispers of the nine apprentices and fresh assassins around him. Zevran leaned against an abandoned merchant's cart, in full view of the road, and chuckled to himself. Yes, Zevran Arainai was so skilled, so fearless, that he needed no concealment from even the fabled Grey Wardens. Or so they fancied, no doubt.
Again, not a single one would have made it as an assassin, if they truly did not see the dagger poised right between their collective shoulder-blades. Zevran was doing them, and the Crows, a favor.
When everything was ready, Carolina smirked and ran off, crying rather unconvincingly about the darkspawn that were attacking her. Any fool would have noticed that the corpses here were a week old, and that Carolina did not have a scratch on her, but such was the consequence of hiring one of the Crows' dimmer hedge mages for this task.
Sure enough, Carolina returned a couple minutes later with three rather skeptical-looking Wardens at her heels. Well well… they, at least, weren't fools. Their eyes fell on him, and he chuckled as he watched all three immediately came to the right conclusions.
Zevran reflected that he always did have a flair for the dramatic, even as he stepped forward and gave the signal. His fellows appeared from their hiding spots, bows drawn and blades at the ready. The three Wardens were surrounded by eleven of the most well-trained murderers money could buy. If Zevran had been trying, it might have been a fair fight.
With a grin, savoring the irony of the situation and anticipating the oncoming battle for more reasons than one, he drew his sword and raised it. "The Grey Wardens die here!"
Bowstrings all around the clearing twanged, and all three Wardens sprang into motion. The mage's fingers began dancing, and fire soon rained on one pocket of archers. And sure enough, as soon as Carolina revealed herself to be a mage with a lightning spell, the Dalish archer's arrows were set straight on her, even as the Dalish elf dove for cover against the assassins' suppressing fire.
The white wolf streaked across the road, nipping at the heels of the Crows' melee fighters as they closed in on the mage. The Warden mage seemed to be doing well enough at keeping them at bay, regularly casting a rather impressive series of lightning and fire blasts that kept the killers at a safe distance.
Zevran dove into the chaos gleefully, his longsword and dagger becoming a whirl of death as he went straight for the mage. In such matters, it was always best to take the casters out quickly, and this mage appeared more dangerous than most, judging by the smoking ruins where half his archers had been a moment before.
Oh yes, he wanted to die. But he certainly wasn't going to make it easy for them to bring it about!
As he was lining up for the killing blow behind the mage's oblivious back, his dagger was intercepted by another's. Startled, he dodged back in time to avoid the second dagger arcing in toward his neck, and he turned to see the dual-wielder, crouched in an easy battle stance, smirking at him as if teasing him for failing to stab his friend.
So this dagger fighter wanted to play, then? Zevran was hardly one to turn down such a challenge.
Zevran turned his full attention to the dual-wielder, stabbing his sword in to end it quickly with a killing blow, but his blade was easily knocked aside and rejoined with a stab at his side. He parried the blade gracefully, but the second dagger swooped in quickly enough to throw him back on his heels, lest he mar his perfectly marketable face.
The dagger wielder pressed the advantage as well as any Crow, and only Zevran getting behind the other elf allowed him to gain equal ground again. The other elf spun agilely to meet him, blocking his double-thrust with a two-handed parry, and Zevran nearly laughed as the elf's foot came forward to kick at a rather impolite area. Zevran slid back out of harm's way as soon as he saw the other elf's weight shift. So this elf knew how to fight dirty, did he? How often had the assassin used that very same maneuver himself? It was particularly effective, he'd found, when his opponent wasn't wearing any clothes.
Now completely engrossed it their deadly, whirling dance, Zevran's awareness of the rest of the fight faded. How silly he'd been, to discount the dual-wielder as a non-threat… this was the most challenge he'd had in months! He dodged the whirling daggers and ducked behind the broken merchant's cart, hoping to catch his target as he came around. However, the elf didn't follow Zevran around the side as expected. The Antivan looked around for the other elf, perplexed, and then yelped as the elf came down from above, having climbed over the cart.
Zev rolled away before he could be pinned down, but not before taking a slice to the shoulder for it. It was one of many such wounds he already bore from those glinting daggers, and it was all Zevran could do not to laugh with elation. Yes, this was exactly what he wanted, to die in a battle as one befitting his skills! The secret poet in him crowed in triumph, even as he again threw himself on those whirling daggers, his own blades blurring as metal rang on metal again and again.
At some point as they spun and ducked around one another, their eyes locked, both sparkling with primal enjoyment. Zevran could see the wonder in the other's eyes—that of one just discovering the beauty of the deadly dance… not unlike the discovery of sex, really. Zevran was almost disappointed that he would not be able to enjoy that discovery with future duels. Alas, they were trying to kill one another, and that did put a damper on future relations.
So engrossed in the fight was he that he didn't notice as, one by one, his assassins were consumed by a torrent of fire. He didn't hear Carolina's screams as a white wolf tore into her throat. He did not register that the only sound left in the abandoned village was the rapid ring of steel on steel as the pair traded blows again and again.
And then Zevran sprinted back around the cart, turned to anticipate the dual-wielder's little jumping move, and came face to face with a small, irritated mage. The mage lifted a hand, and the sting of lightning enveloped Zevran. The world flickered out, and Zevran thought that this was it… and that he was not nearly as happy about that as he should be.
His senses returned slowly, first and foremost accompanied by the tingling ache of the newly electrocuted—one of many sensations he was familiar with, courtesy of the thoroughness of Crow training. He wondered if this was what it was like to be dead, but quickly discarded the idea. There were many different beliefs about what happened after one kicked the bucket, but Zevran suspected 'eating dirt' was not one of them.
He opened his eyes and lifted his face from the mud, rather surprised to see just who was crouching over him. His mind swiftly assessed the situation: his arms were tied behind his back, and the woman had a knife held threateningly in front of him. They'd kept him alive? Why? An answer presented itself easily enough: they obviously wished to interrogate him before they killed him.
A bad time to lose his nerve, it seemed, but there it was. He couldn't deny the wave of relief that washed through him at realizing that his end had not yet come. He… didn't want to die? He wanted to live? Yes, it seemed it was so.
It seemed this would have been far more convenient to have discovered sooner, but Zevran was never one to dwell upon lost opportunities... he was more skilled at making new ones.
The woman and dual-wielder were both crouching over him, the first with a hunting knife trained on him and suspicion in her eyes. The second, however, looked more curious than hostile… a strange expression, given Zevran had just spent the last five minutes trying to kill him. Behind them stood the mage, arms crossed and scowling. The wolf could be seen in the background, making a hearty meal of the fresh corpses. Ah. Yes, not a single other Crow was left alive, it seemed. That was, admittedly, rather impressive.
Zevran attempted to sit up to meet his captors with a bit of dignity, but that only woke up all the stings of his battle wounds, on top of the ache of electrocution. For all his years of training, he couldn't suppress a groan.
"I rather thought I'd wake up dead… or not wake up at all, as the case may be."
The mage grumbled something, but it was the dual-wielder who engaged him. "We have some questions, and corpses can be stodgy about answering."
Zevran couldn't help but smile, since he'd made a very similar observation not that long ago. And wouldn't you know it… the dual-wielder's lips quirked in response.
"Ah, so I am to be interrogated, then." Zevran knew this technique… he'd seen it employed many times, and had occasionally been roped into it himself: one interrogator makes himself look menacing and ready to kill at a moment's notice, while the other smiles and pretends to be the victim's friend, so the victim feels like they can trust that person. Usually, Zevran was cast as the friendly one, likely due to his race and amazingly good looks. Just once, he would have liked to be the intimidating one. Ah, but that was neither here, nor there.
Still, from this angle, bound and helpless on the ground, he could see why it worked. "Let me save you some time. My name is Zevran—Zev to my friends—and I am a member of the Antivan Crows, brought here for the sole purpose of slaying any surviving Grey Wardens. Which I have failed at, sadly."
"Obviously," the mage said snidely, but the rogue waved him to quiet.
"What are the Antivan Crows?" he asked, and Zevran was actually a little insulted by the question. Could they really not… no? No, the dual-wielder was exchanging curious looks with his two companions. They'd never heard of the Crows; that must be rectified, if only as a matter of professional pride.
"We are an order of assassins based in Antiva. We pride ourselves in getting the job done, given the right price, that is. I'm surprised you haven't heard of the Crows. Where I come from, we're rather infamous."
"Not for being good assassins, apparently," the mage snapped.
Zevran forced a weak laugh. "Yes, I can see how you might get that impression. Rest assured, for one to fail like this is quite… rare. It's rather frowned upon among the Crows, you see, to get paid to kill a mark, and then not kill him."
"Who paid you?" the dual-wielder asked.
"Me personally? The Crows. But as to who paid the Crows… it was a rather taciturn fellow in the capitol. Loghain, I think his name was."
The mage spat a rather blasphemous curse.
The answer sparked an interesting light in the dual-wielder's eyes, and Zevran definitely detected the gleam of a plot being spun. Ah, so the mage and the archer were the muscle here… it was apparent that the brains of this operation was the rogue. After a moment of thought, the rogue asked smoothly, "When were you to see him next?"
Ha, as if Zevran could not guess what the schemer was planning. Pity, he'd have to spoil such a poetically delightful plan. "I wasn't. If I had succeeded in killing all of you, I would have returned home, and the Crows would have informed your Loghain of the results. If I had failed, I would be dead. Or I should be, at least, as far as the Crows are concerned." He lifted a shoulder in a shrug. "No need to see Loghain, then."
The rogue let out an appreciative snort of laughter. Zevran cursed silently as he was taken in by it; he knew it was a mask for the matter of interrogation, but it was an effective one. Even he, a Crow trained to withstand such techniques, was warming to the rogue.
It didn't help that all three elves were quite attractive. Alas, it was as if the powers that be had designed this trap with Zevran's specific weaknesses in mind.
"Are you particularly loyal to Loghain, then?"
Ah, but that was an awkward question to ask a Crow. "I have no idea what his issues are with you. The usual, I imagine. You threaten his power, yes?"
All three nodded, as if there was any doubt.
"Beyond that, no. I'm not loyal to him. I was contracted to perform a service. Should you wish to return the favor, you would have to take it up with my superiors." He paused, and amended, "...or would have, anyway, were I not now as good as dead in their eyes."
Something glinted in the rogue's eyes. "And sparing your life would not be fair payment for seeing such a job done?"
"WHAT?" the mage squawked. "Finian, he tried to murder us! You said we'd wake him up for questioning, not take him on as another pet!"
The woman leveled a hard look up at the mage. "I hope you are not referring to Fang as a 'pet', da'lethallin."
The mage threw his hands in the air. "You too? Wonderful, we named it. Now we have to keep it."
Zevran allowed himself a chuckle, and turned his attention back to his interrogator. He startled when he realized that the rogue hadn't taken his eyes off Zevran. The assassin could feel the assessment in the other elf's gaze. Definitely the brains, yes.
And it seemed the rogue was still awaiting his answer to that rather possibility-laden question. Zevran had expected to be killed as soon as the Wardens were out of questions, but it seemed this 'Finian' had other plans.
The assassin pondered the question. "In the Crows," he said carefully, "it is rather bad for business for one to stab the hand holding the purse strings, if you take my meaning. However… dead men do tend to have minds of their own, yes? What with being uncooperative in interrogations and the like."
Zevran was surprised by how easily the other elf caught his meaning. A sly smirk stole across Finian's face. "You seem to be doing well enough at that, though."
"Ah ha ha… yes, I suppose I am. I do aim to please, in whatever way befits the situation."
"Fin," the mage spoke up again. "You can't be serious, here. This guy's an assassin. What's to say he won't turn around and stab us in the back as soon as we untie him?"
The rogue sent a grin over his shoulder. "And you'd let him? I'd expect you to turn him into a husk of charred meat if he even implied it in jest, much less made an actual attempt."
The mage wrinkled his nose, mollified, but made no move to deny it. Zevran arched an eyebrow, making note not to provoke the mage unnecessarily, even if the boy's obvious temper looked like it would be great fun to rile.
"In this," the woman said, "I agree with Kazar. This man is dangerous."
"And that's why we can use him," Finian said. He turned to arch a brow at the assassin. "Right, Zevran?"
"In whatever way you see fit," he replied easily, masking his nervousness from having his continued state of existence be voted down. "I am quite good at a number of things—stealth, lock-picking, poisons, making people die—and I assure you, I have other talents that, should they be necessary, would also be at your disposal." And that could be used against the Wardens, if Zevran felt so inclined to finish his contract after all.
"You must think we're royally stupid!" the mage, Kazar, snapped, as if reading his mind.
"No, I think you're royally tough to kill… I'm only hoping you're royally stupid." The woman tensed, her knife coming a couple inches closer to Zevran's throat, and Zevran quickly backpedaled, realizing that Finian was the only one he should be joking with at the moment. "Let me rephrase that." He met the rogue's eyes, because he wasn't making any ground with the other two, and it was obvious who the one in charge was anyway. "I'm hoping that you're the sort of fellow that takes a chance every now and again. Ha ha… no?"
The rogue let him stew on his nerves for a bit, the bastard. Again, Zevran felt the piercing nature of the elf's gaze—even if a smirk did quirk the rogue's lips—and the assassin wondered whether the rogue had spotted his rather unloyal thoughts a moment ago. If so, he was as good as dead, and he did not want such an end anymore. Not like this, anyway.
"One last question, Zevran of the Antivan Crows." The assassin swallowed at the low, silky tone in the rogue's voice. "Is your loyalty worth your life?"
It was a threat, even if it was delivered in a soft, seemingly friendly tone, and Zevran wondered just what sort of creature this particular Warden was. The other two were straightforward enough—to the point of boredom, in the case of the woman—but this elf was dangerous in the way that the smoothest of Crow Masters was dangerous. All soft words and silver tongues, until you died of a poison you hadn't even been aware of drinking.
He licked his lips, trying to come up with a way to get this man to put some trust in him. At least until he could properly sort this out. "I happen to be a very loyal person, up until the point where someone expects me to die for failing. That's not a fault, really."
The rogue didn't react one way or another. It was... disconcerting.
"But as I said, the Crows do not take kindly to such things as failure. The severance package is garbage, let me tell you. I failed to kill you, so my life is forfeit. That's how it works. If you don't kill me, the Crows will. Even if I finish the job later, they would be just as likely to kill me on principle for failing the first time."
That, at least, made the rogue nod thoughtfully.
"Thing is, I like living." Surprisingly. "And you are obviously the sort of people to give the Crows pause. It is in my best interest to serve you, yes?"
He heard the mage growl, "You can't seriously believe this," but he didn't take his gaze off the rogue's big brown eyes. This 'Finian' was obviously the one to convince… Zevran suspected that, if he could be won over, a clever, scheming sort of man like this would be able to persuade any dissenters from cutting Zevran's throat. At least until the assassin had a chance to decide whether he intended to do the same to them.
"So you'll be using us as protection," Finian said slowly. "You're expecting them to come after you?"
No point denying it. "Possibly. I happen to know their wily ways, however. I can protect myself, as well as you." He glanced around at the assassin corpses that littered the ground. "Not that you seem to need much help in that department."
"That we don't." Again, it was a threat, delivered with a smile. Even so, Finian nodded to the woman, and the Dalish elf bent over him with the knife. For a moment, Zevran worried that they had decided to kill him after all. Instead, the Dalish elf reached behind him, and, a couple seconds later, Zevran felt the ropes around his wrist lose their tautness.
He pulled his hands forward and rubbed his wrists. He was startled to see that his bindings hadn't been ropes, but vines. The doing of the mage, perhaps?
Both elves crouching over him stood, and the rogue offered a hand to help Zevran up. The assassin took it, all too aware of the deadly dagger stored inches from where his hand gripped, ready to pop out and stab him in the heart should he reveal any ill intent toward the Wardens.
"We accept your service, then, assassin," the rogue said, pulling Zevran to his feet. "Your life for your loyalty."
Zevran flourished a bow. "So it is then that I hereby pledge my oath of loyalty to you," he said, catching and holding Finian's gaze, "until such a time as you choose to release me from it. I am your man, without reservation. This I swear."
An amused smile quirked the rogue's lips. "Now that, I didn't expect."
And with that, the tension hanging in the air dropped, though Zevran had difficulty placing just what kind of tension it was. "So, my exalted and most merciful master, what would be your bidding?"
"For now? Kill darkspawn with us."
"Ah, a fine use of the legendary subtlety and finesse of the Antivan Crows."
Finian smirked and started leading them away from the scene of the carnage. The other two elven Wardens fell in step behind them. "Do I detect a hint of sarcasm there, assassin?"
Braska, but the rogue's grin was infectious, now that the threat of imminent death seemed to have passed. "Why, I would never think to speak so disrespectfully to one of the fabled Grey Wardens. Especially not one who has no reservations about jumping over carts to stab hapless assassins."
Finian laughed, and Zevran took that as a good sign. Yes, getting into this one's good graces was his best bet at surviving this new development, especially given the glares the other two were leveling at his back.
"This is just wonderful," the mage's voice grumbled behind them. "First the wolf, and now an assassin? You know what? I want a dangerous pet that will one day turn around and kill me. Maybe a sylvan. Or a Rage Demon. Can you talk a Rage Demon into joining us, too, Fin?"
"We need every able sword we can get against the darkspawn," his rogue said in entirely reasonable tones. Silver-tongued rascal. "And think of it this way: should Loghain's regency become a thorn in our sides down the road, well… let's just say having a trained assassin on our side may make things a lot smoother."
Zevran arched a brow at that, even as the mage grumbled quietly to himself, seemingly mollified. He never would have expected a Grey Warden—heroic saviors of Thedas and all that—to be so… shrewd. Ah well. It would certainly make things more interesting, at the least.
Until he decided whether or not he was going to kill them all, of course.