Note: Some rude language in this chapter. Rude people, too.
Victory at Ostagar
Chapter 20: Hearts of Stone
Bronwyn awoke with a plan.
The scornful guard had been right: she was too ignorant of dwarven ways to act effectively. So to the Shaperate they went.
And after all, it was just a library. Well, that was not entirely true: it was the best run, best organized library she had ever seen, with none of the dotty carelessness of the Circle's cataloging, or the idiosyncrasies and gaps of the Cousland collection. The elderly Shaper of Memories was cooperative, respectful, and willing to talk endlessly of history and customs. He had a large staff, all highly educated and well-trained.
She could not do all this herself, so everyone had an assignment. This morning they would read. They would all read, and they would all learn something about Orzammar and the dwarves. Not everyone was happy with the assignment.
"Oh, come on, Alistair! You like history. You told me so. Look," she said, tapping on the thick green volume she had given him. "Together Against the Darkspawn: The Grey Wardens in Orzammar. I thought that sounded like just the thing for you. Read as much as you can, especially the first and last chapters, where the writers always summarize things."
"I like history I understand. I don't know any of these places they're talking about, except for Orzammar."
"Anders," she called, noting with vexation that Tara and Anders were giggling over their reading like a pair of schoolchildren, "you've got the The Dwarven Thaigs over there. Help Alistair out."
It really was a problem, Bronwyn agreed, sighing over her book on the genealogy of the noble houses. It was not easy to understand many of the books, since the authors took for granted the reader's understanding of the underlying context. She would have to look at those maps of the thaigs herself. In fact, she needed a copy of them. The Shaper did not seem inclined to let the books walk away from the Shaperate. She needed to know who among her people might be best at copying drawing and maps.
Thank the Maker for Sten, who was studying his book on dwarven social customs with admirable diligence, the pages turning with relentless regularity. Morrigan looked a little bored, and perhaps reading about crafting with lyrium might not be particularly exciting, but the dwarves thought it was. Leliana was smiling over dwarven poetry.
Cullen was reading about the Legion of the Dead, a frown knitting his handsome face. Zevran rarely allowed himself to frown—probably concerned that it would make wrinkles—and he was serenely studying the dwarven economy, or at least the chapter titles and the charts. That would have to do. To truly understand the dwarves would take years. She had only a morning—or what she thought might be a morning—to spare.
Aldous had always deplored Bronwyn's ability to skim a book and gather sufficient information to answer questions in a glib, superficial way. "Tasting books" he called it, shaking his head. She was doing it now, but in the end she also would have to take some notes and then pick the Shaper's brains. She had vaguely remembered before she arrived in Orzammar that the dwarven King Endrin had three children, and that was all. Who was this Harrowmont, and by what right did he claim the throne?
The more morally upright of her companions were not satisfied with their current mission, and were asking questions.
"Because I don't want to publicly unsheathe my sword over dwarven politics!" Bronwyn answered wearily. They had met with the seconds of the claimants for the throne, and now they were reduced to running errands.
They were off to Tapster's Tavern at the behest (through his second) of Prince Bhelen, whom Bronwyn now knew was the third and only surviving child of King Endrin. Who, furthermore, was widely thought to have murdered his elder brother, and pinned the blame on his innocent and very popular sister. The sister had been exiled to the Deep Roads, unarmed and unarmored, and was now presumably dead. The King had purportedly named Harrowmont his successor, and further had made Harrowmont swear never to let his kinslaying youngest child succeed to the throne.
But this was all rumor and hearsay. Ultimately, Bhelen's possible guilt and Harrowmont's possible claim were not issues that should concern the Grey Wardens.
"That fellow Vartag is a sleazy piece of work," Alistair grumbled. "I hope Prince Bhelen isn't as oily as his second."
"He can be an animated oil jar for all I care, if he'll fulfill the terms of the treaty," Bronwyn shot back. "It is not our duty to determine the best possible king for the dwarves. They should have done that for themselves. It is our duty to determine the king most likely to support the Grey Wardens and the struggle against the Blight. Everything I hear about Bhelen indicates that he has a lively interest in surface matters, and everything I hear about Harrowmont indicates that he is a traditionalist who barely acknowledges the surface exists. Because he has the name of an honorable man, he will do his duty, but no more. And I will not engage in some ridiculous Honor Proving so I can be shown off like a Grey Warden trophy!"
"For all their talk about respect for the Grey Wardens," sneered Morrigan, "both parties are quite happy to demand you perform errands for them as proof of your good faith."
"Exactly," agreed Bronwyn, with a nod to Morrigan. "That is exactly how I see it. Therefore, I shall deliver these papers to Lord Helmi and Lady Dace, a task less conspicuously partisan than fighting in the arena."
She took only Alistair with her when the tavernkeeper, Corra, pointed out her first target. The rest of the companions were free to mingle in the tavern, find themselves some drinks, and generally become more acclimated to Orzammar.
Lord Helmi, in the midst of a radical political rant at the tavern, was affable enough to her. He apparently had views about the caste system, which while rather naively expressed (he actually seemed to think that surfacers were all "equal," whatever that meant), seemed less hidebound than the average deshyr. He accepted the documents at face value, and promised his support to Prince Bhelen.
Her companions had learned interesting things while she was occupied. Dwarven ale was nearly undrinkable, and the tavern was filled with a number of strange types. Cullen fell into an interesting conversation with a warrior who had known Duncan. He gestured Alistair over to talk at length with the dwarf. The title "Grey Warden" meant something in the place, though, alas, it did not mean "free drinks."
Bronwyn attracted a great deal of attention, or rather, Scout did. Dogs were virtually unknown in Orzammar, and animal life was largely limited to vermin like deepstalkers and giant spiders. The only domesticated animals she had heard of were creatures called "nugs."
Eventually, when they left the tavern and continued their exploration of Orzammar, they actually saw one. "Oh!" cried Leliana." I've heard of those! They're a kind of subterranean bunny-pig. Aren't they adorable?"
Scout whined. Bronwyn caught her dog's rolling eye, and scratched his ears consolingly. She thought the half-blind, hairless creatures revolting, but there was no accounting for lack of taste.
She talked to every merchant who would talk about politics. Bhelen was definitely the choice of the lower castes: the smiths and the merchants above all. Those were the people who had the most to gain by increased contact with the surface. She had only met one noble, and she suspected he was not representative of his class as a whole.
Back in the Diamond Quarter, they found that Lady Dace was not so agreeable as Lord Helmi. On the contrary, she made plain her contempt for all surfacers. Only after seeing the documents did she show any interest in the conversation. Bhelen apparently had evidence that Harrowmont was cheating on some sort property agreement—or Bhelen had manufactured such evidence.
Bronwyn found she did not much care. Resenting with all her heart the labyrinthine politics of Orzammar, she simply presented the documents without comment.
And then an additional complication unfolded. Lady Dace could not make decisions for House Dace without the consent of her father, Lord Dace. Lord Dace was currently in the Deep Roads, leading an expedition to the Aeducan Thaig. Bronwyn ground her teeth in frustration.
Lady Dace was good enough to give them a pass to the Deep Roads, and a detailed map. The rest was up to the Wardens.
The Aeducan Thaig had once been a settlement belonging to House Aeducan, the family of the late King Endrin, and was the thaig closest to Orzammar. The Shaper repeatedly told her that a thaig was not a town or a city or a village. It was a thaig. There were always problems when communicating with a different culture. "Thaig" did seem to have some of the meanings of "colony" or "settlement." However, it was easier, safer, and less confusing just to use the word "thaig" herself.
The thaig had been abandoned for many years, one of the last lost to the darkspawn over the past millennium. From time to time the dwarves attempted to reclaim the lost thaigs, but only a great effort enabled them to seize the closer ones even temporarily.
"My readings," Sten said thoughtfully, "lead me to conclude that there are simply not enough dwarves."
The entrance to the Deep Roads spoke of dwarven power and ingenuity in the ancient days before the darkspawn. A magnificent highway stretched out before them: carved pilasters soaring up to the dim ceiling far overhead. It was majestic, it was like nothing Bronwyn had ever seen, and it came to a halt a few miles away, where the darkspawn had hewn side tunnels and blocked the way. From then on they moved back and forth between the fractured Roads proper and the network of tunnels, and they lived in a world of stale air and hard stone; of ambushes and traps. The constant presence of the darkspawn crawled like spiders over Bronwyn's consciousness.
"I'm getting better at sensing darkspawn, I think," Bronwyn told Alistair, "or maybe they leave traces wherever they go."
"That's certainly true," agreed Alistair, wrinkling his nose. "Everybody, be careful of that black stuff you see on the rocks. That has something to do with them, and it can poison you."
"Up ahead!" called Zevran, from his position on point. Bronwyn mentally blessed the Maker for giving elves their superb night vision. They broke into a run and heard the deep shouts of dwarves intermixed with horrible squeaks, all echoing off endless stone.
Thus, they did not meet the deepstalkers unprepared. The foul little creatures had attacked Lord Dace and his party. With the bodies of naked geese, and worm-like heads on their long necks, the deepstalkers were a nasty and persistent enemy, and the poisoned spit hurt. Once again, Bronwyn thanked the Maker for mages and their freezing spells.
"My thanks, strangers. You pulled me from a tight spot."
Lord Dace was not as arrogant as his daughter, or perhaps he was simply grateful for his life. Bronwyn showed him the documents, gathered that he was equally grateful to be apprised of Harrowmont's dishonesty, and together they returned to Orzammar.
The dwarf noble unbent somewhat on the way. He showed a certain respect for Bronwyn's status as a Grey Warden, and some of it seemed genuine. Bronwyn saw no reason not to tell him the reason she was here.
"You say the darkspawn have risen to the surface?" the noble asked, frowning. "But that only happens during a—" he paused, and said slowly, "—a Blight. I see. You are certain?"
"There is no question."
"This is grave news." The old man looked weary. "Mind you, I don't know if it will make any difference to most of the deshyrs. We are locked in the contest for the throne, and all eyes are on that."
"It sounds like the ideal time for the darkspawn to strike in force," Bronwyn agreed coolly. "Thrones mean nothing to them."
"Too true. For good or ill, we must resolve the succession, and soon." He nodded. "Very well. Bhelen will have the support of House Dace. May the Stone accept it."
Success brought them an invitation to the Palace, and an introduction to Prince Bhelen himself.
"I am impressed, Warden. Not many visitors to Orzammar grasp our rather…convoluted politics so quickly."
Bhelen was in fact much oilier than his second, but he was also vital, energetic, and driven. Bronwyn thought briefly of King Cailan, and wished her own king showed a tenth of this dwarf's burning ambition. And then thought again. If Cailan were anything like Bhelen, she would tremble for Ferelden.
He was not unappealing, too, despite the dwarven stature and a nose of truly prodigious size. And he agreed with Bronwyn on the main point.
"We both know that fighting the Blight is all that really matters. We must have absolute unity to face the fulcrum of true evil."
Bronwyn regarded him gravely. The phrase might be considered hyperbolic, but it was also completely true. She suspected that he thought his own elevation to monarch equally important. Nonetheless, if he believed that only he had the ability to recognize the danger facing them for what it was, then she could understand his will to power. As he pointed out very justly, the treaty only bound the King to assist the Grey Wardens. In the absence of such, she would be be quite out of luck.
Her intervention had won him two more votes, but more was needed. Bronwyn listened to his further demands, willing herself not to sigh.
"Crime is rampant in the streets. How could anyone win the support of the Assembly if they permitted such chaos?"
There was a something called the Carta, which was a criminal organization based in Dust Town, the home of the casteless. Bhelen believed that the current gang leader was a woman named Jarvia. Bronwyn's mission was to hunt down this Jarvia and her Carta, and eliminate them.
With that, he dismissed them.
"More errands," muttered Alistair.
"At least these errands involve fighting," said Sten.
"They involve fighting dwarves," Bronwyn frowned. "When did we become the Orzammar City Guard? I'd go to Harrowmont, but I suspect he'd ask exactly the same of us."
"And so you'll have to unsheathe your sword over dwarven politics after all," Morrigan said dryly.
"So it would seem."
She strode to the Palace doors, head down in thought, and nearly trampled someone.
"Your pardon, lords," squeaked the young dwarf woman, scurrying out of their way. Bronwyn noted that she was pretty and well-dressed, and that she had the mark of the casteless tattooed on one cheek. That was…interesting.
Bhelen had a casteless mistress? She must be his, for no one else would dare bring a "brand" here. That certainly threw a new light on his politics. It was possible that his liberalizing attitude was not a mere pose.
What a thing it was to travel and to see the wonders of Thedas for herself, Bronwyn thought, grimacing at the irony of it. She descended into Dust Town, where the Carta had its base, and thought the Deep Roads might even be an improvement on this. The construction here was cruder, and its crumbling, unfinished nature reminded Bronwyn somehow of the Highever Alienage. In one way it was better, for the inhabitants never needed to worry about the weather, but in every other…
Tara faltered. "This is…"
"…horrible," agreed Anders.
"No one should have to live like this," Leliana said softly.
Morrigan sneered. "Why do the poor not rise up against their betters? This I have never understood."
Sten nodded. "I estimate that the dwarves waste a full sixth of their population. It is irrational, as the population is already small to begin with."
It was filthy, and it stank. It reeked, actually. The companions passed a sort of crude butcher shop, where the carcasses of gutted nugs were hung on display. The proprietor grinned at them with green and filthy teeth. The dwarves here were all tattooed across the face, and scuttled from shadow to shadow, dressed in filthy rags.
Until they leaped out and attempted robbery, poor fools.
So Bronwyn indeed drew her sword and killed them. Killed them dead in the dusty pathways, and no one said a word.
"I take it the City Guard doesn't come here much," Alistair remarked.
"Why would they?" Tara said bitterly. "Nobody cares what happens to these people."
There were beggars, of course, just as there were beggars everywhere. An older woman gladly gave Bronwyn directions to a Carta safe house for the price of a meal. Hungry eyes fastened on the woman as Bronwyn and her companions stepped away, and who knew how much of her money the old woman would be allowed to keep?
"Please," called a young woman in a soft voice. "Please…my son is sick. Can you spare a few coins?"
Bronwyn looked at her, and then looked again. "You're not one of the casteless," she said slowly. "What are you doing here?"
It was the same old story, with dwarven variations. Listening to it, Bronwyn learned more about dwarven inheritance customs than she might have from any book. Caste was inherited by gender, mother-to-daughter and father-to-son: the sex of a child determined its entire future.
Zerlinda had fallen in love with a casteless man and had born him a son. He had hoped for a daughter, and indeed that was the entire reason for his pursuit of a young woman of the smith caste. A daughter would have inherited her mother's caste, and the father would have been permitted into the family. Instead, the unwanted son inherited his father's casteless status, and was useless. Zerlinda had not seen her lover since. Her parents had thrown her out, demanding that she abandon the child in the Deep Roads before she could be welcome at home.
It was a sad story indeed, and Bronwyn was so impatient with the lords and the deshyrs and the castes of Orzammar that she gave the young woman her real opinion and ten silver coins.
"Go to the surface and make a new life for your son there."
The secret lair of the Carta reminded Bronwyn irresistibly of the Royal Palace: a twisting tunnel with stone chambers branching from it. There were bedchambers, and storage vaults, and offices. All of them were filled with warriors, and none of the warriors fled their duty. Here, in the depths of Orzammar, the casteless had made a kingdom of their own.
It even had a doorman.
"What's the password?" he demanded gruffly.
Anders burst out laughing. There were smirks and some rolling of eyes. Scout lowered his head and growled.
Bronwyn smiled faintly. "Get out of my way, or I'll kill you."
"But—that's not the passw—"
Their invasion was a slaughter. The casteless were good fighters, but not brilliant ones. The few mercenaries they had as support—some Qunari whom Sten held in contempt for abandoning their customs, some elven apostate mages—were cut down too. There were no escape routes built into the Carta's den. Once the Wardens pushed defenders into a stone chamber there was almost never a rear exit. The defenders stood and died. No one offered to surrender. Mercy was unknown in Dust Town.
Around another outcropping, they came to a kind of crossroads. On impulse, Bronwyn chose the door to the left.
"Cullen," she whispered. "You, Tara, and Sten stay here. Watch to see if anything comes out of there—" she pointed to the right-hand door "—to attack us."
Yes, the Carta hideout was much like a palace. It even had its own dungeon.
The stone chamber they next attacked was well-defended. A burly dwarf with a maul rushed them, flanked by some hard-eyed thugs. One flinched away from Bronwyn's sword flashing before his eyes, and stiffened as she plunged her dagger into his side. Within a few minutes, the guards were down, and the companions were studying the little prison with curiosity.
"Over here!" croaked a voice from the next room. Bronwyn made her way over there warily, and Zevran pushed to her side, sword at the ready.
There were cells. And prisoners. The Carta jailed its enemies?
One of the prisoners was male, a small, emaciated dwarf who pleaded, "Let us out! Just let us out! We've been here for a Stone's age!"
In the other cell was a woman, who stared at Bronwyn with burning eyes. "Yeah," she rasped. "Let us out. I got a score to settle with that bitch Jarvia."
"Actually," Alistair said pleasantly, "we're on our way to pay a call on your friend Jarvia ourselves."
"No friend of mine!" protested the scrawny female. She shoved past the unlocked door, all wound-up energy and focused hate. "I'm going to gut her, and dig out her eyes with a spoon!"
"Why a spoon?" wondered Alistair.
"Because it'll hurt more!" snarled the dwarf. "You got anything to eat?"
Bronwyn, her eyes still on the woman, dug into one of her small pouches for the snack she always carried: some jerky, some hard and crunchy biscuits, a bit of cheese. They were snatched from her hand by the woman, almost faster than Bronwyn could see. The man scrambled over, trying to catch at the crumbs, but the woman kicked him aside, and shoved the food into her mouth, hardly chewing, grunting like an animal.
Alistair grimaced and felt in his own snack pouch. He pulled at the man by his bony shoulder.
"Over here," he muttered, and gave the poor soul what he had.
Within seconds, the food was consumed. The woman wiped her mouth with a grimy forearm, and considered Bronwyn.
"By the Stone! You're really…tall!"
She was a dwarf, of course, though not short for one of those. Her filthy hair stuck out from her head in a few short pigtails. It was impossible to guess at its real color, for she was dust-colored all over, all but her fierce black eyes. She stank worse than the rest of Dust Town put together, but that was understandable, given her captivity. Tara looked at her with wide-eyed pity, obviously remembering her own days in a cell.
Bronwyn thought this her best chance to find out more about the Carta.
"I am the Grey Warden Bronwyn. What is your name?"
The dwarf woman stared at her blankly, nonplussed that anyone would want to know her name, especially a rich surfacer with fancy armor. And a Grey Warden, too! After a moment, she replied cautiously.
"Brosca. I'm Freydis Brosca. People just call me Brosca. That's my friend Leske."
"Very well, Freydis Brosca. Tell me everything you know about Jarvia and this Carta."
She knew a lot, having been a member in good standing before she became a member is such poor standing indeed that she was locked away to die. After she told Bronwyn everything useful, she and Leske began scrambling around the room, looting the dead men. Alistair made a face, but Bronwyn shook her head at him. The rest were sympathetic, and Leliana helpfully pointed out some dropped coins that Leske had missed.
"You're all right, Red! I mean… my lady," the dwarf mumbled, ducking his head as if expecting a blow.
"So anyhow," said Brosca, as if continuing a conversation begun long ago, "we go find Jarvia and kill her, and then we loot the place from end to end. I know a good fence here in Dust Town. Make a bundle." She peered up at Bronwyn. "What do you say to fifty-fifty?"
Bronwyn opened her mouth, but Brosca cut her off, "Yeah, I know. Leske and I get ten percent each then, all right? That's fair, isn't it?"
Bronwyn had actually been about to say that the dwarves could have it all, but then shut her mouth. Her funds were seriously depleted, and the Carta's storerooms were stuffed with valuable goods: mostly arms and armor, but some food and clothing and luxury items, too. Neither Bhelen nor Harrowmont had offered her any recompense for her trouble and danger. Father had always told her that wars were fought with coin as much as they were with blood and iron. They had already found quite a bit of coin here, but they could sell other things for even more.
"All right, ten percent each. Eighty percent to the Wardens. First we deal with Jarvia."
"I like the way you think, Boss," grinned Brosca, hefting a dagger in either hand.
At the next chamber, they burst in like a thunderbolt. The carta thugs were frozen and knocked down before they could breathe twice. Brosca gave a whoop and sat on one of them, holding a dagger to his throat. His eyes opened, and he grunted in surprise.
Brosca grinned back at Bronwyn. "Sorry, Boss, but I've got to talk to this one. Gotta find out about my sister. You know Rica, don't you, Folden? Where's Rica? Did Jarvia get her?"
The dwarf snorted a laugh, cut off suddenly when Brosca dug the point of her dagger into his neck.
"She's all right! Rica's all right!" he screamed. "I'll tell you about it! She bagged a noble! I swear! Bagged the biggest one of all! She's up in the Diamond Quarter, living like a noble herself. She had a boy, and she's made for life!"
Brosca's face stretched into an expression of incredulous joy. "You mean it? You're not lying? Rica made it out of here? What about my Ma?"
"Lives with her! I swear! They're living in the Palace, they are! I swear! Too good for the likes of us now!"
Very interested, Bronwyn leaned over to ask, "Are you saying that her sister Rica is the mistress of Prince Bhelen, and that she has born him a child?"
"A boy!" shouted Brosca gleefully. "A boy! I have a nephew! I'm aunt to a prince!"
"Where is Jarvia now?" Bronwyn pressed.
"In her quarters, meeting with some of the boys," Folden gasped out. "I swear! She wanted to fix Rica, but she couldn't. That prince of hers sent for her as soon as he heard she had a nug under her apron, and she cleared out before Jarvia could get her."
"Thanks, Folden," Brosca said, very sincerely. "That's the best news I ever heard." With a quick slash, she cut the man's throat to the bone, and he died with a red, bubbling protest.
She got up and slapped herself across the chest. "Well, I feel great! I never have to worry about Rica ever again! Let's go kill Jarvia now. She's one tough bitch, but I'm tougher today!"
Bronwyn turned into the tunnel, "I take it you know where her quarters are?"
"Oh, yeah," Brosca said, falling into step beside Bronwyn, black eyes gleaming like a hard coal fire. "Oh, yeah."
Alistair and Cullen raised their brows. Sten merely looked interested.
The best fighters in Dust Town were in Jarvia's quarters, and she was the best of them all. She was very strong, very fast, and an imaginative fighter who knew every dirty trick and had invented some of her own. She was surprised to see Brosca and Leske, but unimpressed with her other visitors.
"Grey Wardens? Huh! Not very choosy about the company you keep, are you?"
"You screwed up, Jarvia," Brosca drawled. "The nobles didn't give a shit about what we do in Dust Town until you gave them a reason, you stupid nugsucker!"
"So the mighty nobles have decided they have to do something about me?" Jarvia sneered back. "It doesn't matter who's King in Orzammar, as long as they know who's the Queen!"
Acid splashed into Alistair's face, and he screamed, temporarily blinded. Brosca dove, and hit Jarvia at the knees, bringing her down. Bronwyn ducked under an axe-man's furious swing, and stabbed him in the back of the neck during his follow-through, neatly severing his spine. Scout bowled an archer over, and shook him like rat.
Anders was casting healing on Alistair, while Morrigan and Tara sucked the life from the Carta thugs. Dwarves were resistant to magic, but they were not immune.
A blast of fire knock Cullen's feet from under him, and he fell heavily on his back, winded.
"Traps!" shouted Leliana. "The room is rigged with them!"
Sten roared, and his greatsword swept a vast arc of destruction in the wake of Tara's paralysis spell.
Jarvia kicked Brosca away and darted, blades out, straight at Leliana, who was disarming a tripwire. Zevran threw a dagger, and Jarvia shrieked, weapon dropping from her ruined hand.
Alistair smashed her down with his shield, and Brosca tackled her again. Around them was a hell of slaughter, as Jarvia's henchmen were cut down, one by one.
In a last, desperate ploy, Jarvia pulled a thin bodkin from her coiled hair and thrust it into Brosca's face. Brosca dodged, but the point pierced her ear, ripping it open. Brosca bellowed in rage, and drove her daggers into either side of Jarvia's throat. Sprays of crimson dyed her hands.
"Bitch! Fucking bitch!" screamed Brosca, stabbing at the dying Jarvia again and again. "Think you can lock up me and give me to your goons?"
Bronwyn eased her stiff neck and shoulders and walked over to watch the dwarf vent her fury on the dead Carta leader. Cursing, Brosca viciously stabbed at the dead, open eyes. Blood and matter squirted up. Scout sniffed at the interesting smell. Bronwyn grimaced and scratched his ears.
"Feel better?" she asked Brosca.
"Yeah. I do. So much for that bitch." Brosca began rummaging through Jarvia's armor for her possessions. "Fuck! I ruined her armor! Fuck, fuck fuck!"
Leske slid over and whispered, "Hey, Brosca! We're not supposed to talk like that in front of folks who aren't Dusters! You can get in trouble!"
This penetrated the bloodthirsty haze. "Sorry. I guess I got too excited. That was good armor. I shouldn't have gone crazy like that."
"What will you do now?' Alistair asked.
"Don't know. Think of something," Brosca mumbled. "Got to get the loot first."
Leske's eyes widened, "We could take over the Carta," he breathed.
"No good," said Brosca, shaking her head dolefully. "Carta's dead. We killed it. It'll take years to come back. Besides, I don't want to see this shithole ever again. Excuse me," she apologized to Bronwyn.
"If your sister is the King's mistress," Anders suggested, healing her torn ear, "maybe she could do something for you."
"That's true!" Leske said, full of excitement. "'Member, Brosca? Beraht was gonna tell everybody he was Rica's brother and live in the Palace. You really are her sister, so you could live there. And maybe," he said, with pitiful hope, "you could put in a good word for me? Say I was a relative or something?"
"Right," Brosca snorted, trying to wipe her face, and smearing the blood instead. "Can you picture me in the Palace!" She finally got to her feet and said to Bronwyn, "But I need Rica to know I'm alive. If you've got an in there, could you get a message to her? Tell her I'm all right?" She shuffled, and said, "'cos I could pay you and everything..."
Weird and brutal as this woman was, Bronwyn understood what it was to long for family. She said, "You can tell her yourself, but you'll probably want to get cleaned up first. Why don't you both come back to the Grey Warden hostel and have a bath?
Or two, she thought to herself.
"Really? You'd let me have a bath at your place? That's in the Diamond Quarter!"
"You're all right, Warden!" Leske said. "She's all right!" he told Brosca.
"Let's grab what we can and go to Alimar's Emporium," Brosca said, licking her chops at the thought of the stuff that was in this place. "We can't do it all in one go, but we can make a start. No more nug leather for me! I could get clothes of real cloth like a lady, and Rica wouldn't be ashamed of me!"
Their garments were so forlorn that Bronwyn allowed the two dwarfs to equip themselves out of the Carta's bounty: light armor, sound boots, strong studded gauntlets. Helmets even, and proper weapons. The two of them were still scrawny and hollow-eyed, but they no longer looked like dying beggars. Everyone in the party gathered up as much as they could. Even Scout carried an axe in his powerful jaws. Laden with loot, they followed Brosca and Leske out of the tunnels to Dust Town, and through the door of a very shady establishment.
"Hey Al!" Brosca grinned at the proprietor. "We just cacked Jarvia! All this stuff is from her place! Neat, huh?"
Their loot brought in nearly sixty sovereigns. With the coin they'd uncovered, their total take was over seventy. After the dwarves' commission, the Grey Wardens had fifty-three gold, twenty-six silver, and a heavy bag of copper. They could count the copper back at the hostel. Bronwyn felt deep relief. They would be able to reequip and provision themselves for the return journey without stinting necessities. Some kegs of surface ale and dried fruit they would take back to the hostel now. And there was still plenty of loot left, back at the ravaged hideout...
"Eleven sovereigns!" Brosca exulted. "I'm as rich as a noble!" She grabbed up a dwarven woman's dress: a strange garment of cloth, leather, buckles and mail, and held it up to herself, dancing. "Thanks, Jarvia! Dying was the best thing you ever did!"
Leske gaped slack-jawed at his coins. "By the Stone, I never got more than two silvers for killing anybody before! This is great!"
"Warden, get those stinking Dusters out of here," growled the storekeeper, "and tell them to shut up about killing Jarvia!"
Thanks to my reviewers: WellspringCD, Nithu, Shakespira, Amhran Comhrac, Eva Galan, mille libri, gaj620, mutive, Aoi24, jen4306, Chatoyant Tiger, Sarah1281, Enaid Aderyn, JackOfBladesX, demonicnargles, Lehni, Gene Dark, Piceron, roxfox1962, chocolatebrownie12, khaos974, Windchime68, almostinsane, derko5, and ArtemysFayr.
Next up: Cities of the Dead