Victory at Ostagar
Chapter 93: Brosca and the Avvars
Loghain had not visited Gherlen's Halt in over three years. He thought well enough of Ser Blayne Faraday not to tell him his business, under ordinary circumstances. These, of course, were not ordinary circumstances. He had set up his office at the fort, and was conducting business in his usual no-nonsense manner.
The march from the Deep Roads exit to the fortress had been hard, and had taken most of a day. It was hard on men, hard on horses and dogs, and hard on everyone's temper. Without the strength of Shale, they would have been forced to leave their supply wagon behind.
Loghain had sent a messenger ahead, warning Faraday of the arrival of the King and Queen. Faraday had been surprised by the visit; not so surprised that Loghain now ruled in Ferelden. Happy enough with it, apparently. With the extra supplies, the garrison was able to enjoy fairly good cheer for First Day.
Ser Norrel Haglin was here, too, of course, and doing admirable work. Loghain had always thought well of the man, though Bronwyn obviously had little use for anyone who had dared to call himself Bann of Highever City.
After the march, it was a relief to be here, though, and safe. The fort was fairly well supplied, but Ser Norrel Haglin's troops had made inroads into the foodstuffs. It was necessary to relay orders to West Hill, requisitioning additional victuals and weapons.
Along with the fortress of West Hill, Gherlen's Halt was another place where the Glavonak's inventions could do good service. During the Harvestmere attacks, damage had been done to the lower walls and the main gate. Faraday had done quite a bit to repair them in the time he had before the weather grew too harsh. Loghain thought that laying some of Dworkin's explosive grenades in the ditch, to be set off by tripwires, would have a most enjoyable outcome.
The Orlesians were keeping up the pretense that the attacks had been the work of mercenaries, but that pretense was thin indeed. Faraday's scouts included some excellent rangers and mountaineers, and they had observed comings and goings from Roc du Chevalier that confirmed that the attackers were receiving support from the commandant, Berthold de Guesclin. Like the assassination attempts, the attack on Gherlen's Halt had obviously been approved at the highest level.
A clerk appeared at the door.
"The rangers are here, Your Majesty."
Loghain glanced up. "Send them in, and then ask the Queen to join us."
The rangers were good men—Avvar tribesmen, named Ostap and Bustrum—trusted by Faraday, and they had scouted quite a bit of the area near Roc de Chevalier. They used peculiar devices called snowshoes to traverse the rugged, snowy hills, and had managed to slip over the border and have a look at the Orlesian movements along the Imperial Highway. Not much was was on the road at the moment, save some supply wagons from Jader. There was an entrance to the fortress on the Orlesian side, which, though well defended, was not as formidable as the one facing Ferelden.
Bronwyn slipped in during the rangers' report and listened quietly. She was, in fact, one of the few Fereldans Loghain knew who had actually been inside Roc de Chevalier and lived to tell of it. There had been others—agents of his—who had infiltrated in the guise of servants, and had created a fairly complete plan of the place. They had gone back for more information, and had never returned, so Loghain presumed they were dead. For that matter, the agents had never been inside the commandant's personal office, and Bronwyn had.
The Avvars had been somewhere else that interested Loghain. Bronwyn's head shot up at Loghain's next question.
"When were you last in Jader?"
"Last spring, Lord King," said the taller of the two. "The market there is good for furs and spider silk. Once the dwarves began their quarrels and sealed Orzammar, we were forced to trade elsewhere. The City Guard in Jader is vigilant for things of value, and took a portion of our goods for themselves, but we still made good coin."
"Not that we left with any," grunted his stocky friend. "Jader also has many places to spend coin, and when one plays games of chance, the house always wins."
Loghain snorted, "That's true anywhere. However, I'm not sending you to Jader for pleasure. I expect you to keep your eyes and ears open, and to do nothing to attract the notice of the authorities."
"They will not let us through the gates, King, if we have nothing of value. They are hard men, and do not suffer beggars to enter their city."
Bronwyn said, "I daresay they will let you in if your pouches are well-filled with gold."
"That is true, Lady," agreed the stocky one, making a reverence to her, "but they would call us bandits, and hang us, and take the coin. They would say that a pair of Avvars could not have come by a bag of gold honestly, and that is indeed true."
Loghain frowned, thinking. Bronwyn said, "But what if you came as the bodyguards of a merchant, seeking shelter within the city?" She smiled at Loghain's glare.
"Absolutely not," he growled. "Don't even consider it."
"I'm not," she assured him with a light laugh. "I know I could never play the merchant. However, we are blessed with those who could. Yes, a sturdy dwarven merchant, with a pair of stout Avvar bodyguards. Why would Jader not be delighted to take their coin?"
Brosca, when summoned and sounded, was thrilled at the idea of sneaking into Jader.
"Hey, I'm from the big city, " she bragged. "I know the score. I know Orzammar and now I know Denerim. I'm not scared of Jader. Leliana said the buildings are greenstone. Sounds pretty. I can deal with that. I can hang out at the taverns and listen to the talk. I've done that sort of thing a zillion times. It's like the old days in the Carta!"
Had Leliana been with them, Bronwyn would have preferred to send her, but admitted to herself that Loghain would have vetoed the idea. He was perfectly happy to leave Leliana at Soldier's Peak, far from the Orlesian border. On the other hand, he liked and trusted Brosca to some degree, and believed that she was the best for the job. Knowing how Orlesians treated elves and mages, Bronwyn was reluctant to send Zevran and Tara.
"It's a two day journey to Jader in this weather," said Loghain. "Especially as they have to go round about the hills and over some rough terrain. Camping overnight will be risky."
"I know a hunting lodge where they can stay," Bronwyn told him. "There is a place northwest of here. It's sheltered and out of the way. Brosca has been there, though perhaps she might have trouble finding it again. Perhaps Anders should go ahead and see if he can see it from the air."
Brosca would use her first name, Freydis, since word might have spread about a Warden Brosca. The Avvars knew where the Wardens lived in Jader, and Brosca was instructed to stay as far from the place as possible, lest a fellow Warden sense her presence.
"What I want you to listen for," Loghain said, "are rumors of troop movements, of a fleet gathering, of any plans against Ferelden. It might come from the Orlesians, or from the Chantry itself."
"I don't give two hoots about the Chantry," Brosca shrugged. "I don't know what their problem is. Bronwyn's obviously got an in with that goddess of yours."
Ostap nodded, very seriously. "We have heard of this. We hold to the gods of our fathers, but clearly Andraste is powerful, and those who have earned her favor are to be revered." Bustrum glanced at Bronwyn and reddened, lowering his head in respect.
Bronwyn bit her lip, trying not to laugh. Loghain was totally unamused.
"I suggest you not say such things in Jader." he growled. "The Chantry would arrest you."
"What's wrong with saying Andraste's powerful?" Brosca asked, confused.
Bronwyn tried to explain. "Priests are very, very particular about the words you use. Andraste is a Prophet, not a goddess. The Chantry only recognizes one god, and that is the Maker."
The two Avvars rolled their eyes. Brosca still looked blank.
"And whatever you do, don't say that I have an 'in' with Andraste or the Maker," Bronwyn went on hastily. "The Orlesians don't like me. It would probably be a good idea if you didn't say anything nice about me."
Loghain snorted. "It would be best if you didn't mention her at all, in fact."
"Right, I get it," Brosca said, "The Orlesians are the bad guys, and their priests are full of shit. We are but harmless traders, looking for a good time in Jader. We hit the high spots and the low spots, pretend to be drunk, and see what's going on. I can handle it. Piece of cake."
It wasn't: not really. They had to get to the gates of Orzammar, where the Frostback Fair was closed for the winter. The tavern would still open for business, as well as the livery stable. There they would pick up a small wagon and a pair of mules. The Avvars, fortunately, knew how to drive.
Once they had the wagon, they had a long way over rough roads to pass the Jader Bay Hills, get to the Imperial Highway across country, and reach the city. Anders agreed to go with them at least part of the way, and find the hunting lodge where they had held the Joining. Morrigan then insisted on going with him, which Bronwyn thought rather sweet, though the forbidding look on Morrigan's face prevented her saying so. It seemed that Morrigan was determined to protect Anders from any danger.
The mages, once some distance from the fort, flew in their bird forms, while the Avvars introduced Brosca to the delights of snowshoeing. It was a long walk to the Frostback settlement. The livery stable owner had a four-wheeled wagon rather than a two-wheeled cart, but they had to take what they could. The party spent the night in the nearly empty inn, and then moved on to the northwest.
"I was in such a daze those first few days on the surface, I'm not sure what I remember," Brosca admitted.
Anders was more confident. "I know I can find it. If all else fails, I'll spot it from above."
He and Morrigan rose up: their feather black and brown against the white of the snow. The hawk followed the raven, soaring through the hills. The fork in the road was still hidden by a thick pine wood, but the little wooden house and stable were still standing. They appeared to be vacant, as no smoke was rising from the chimney.
The birds alighted on a nearby tree and took a good look about. Morrigan flew to an open window, its shutter creaking in the wind. She hopped from the sill and then flew around to the door. Changing into her human form, she entered the house.
Anders dropped to the ground and shifted. "Morrigan! Wait!" He dashed to the doorway, and found Morrigan already inspecting the shabby interior.
"Someone was here not long ago," Morrigan pointed out, looking with distaste at the filth the squatters had left behind. "Hunters, I daresay, from the mess they made here." She went into the pantry and then walked out again. "Disgusting! They relieved themselves in there!"
She shouldered Anders aside and set about cleaning the ashes from the hearth. "Close the shutters," she commanded, "and see if there is any wood for a fire."
If nothing else, there were some broken boards in the stable. Anders used a force spell to shatter them into pieces. Once the fire was going well, he shifted again, and flew off looking for their companions. The wagon was moving far more slowly, and along one stretch of road, the Avvars were forced to get out of the wagon and help push it uphill. Anders swooped down on them, cawing, and shifted to human form. Brosca laughed out loud. The Avvars were impressed.
"That is a noble skill, mage," said Ostap. "If you weary of being a Grey Warden, you and your woman would be welcome among our folk."
"Thanks!" Anders said, pleased with them and himself. "I'll bear that in mind."
By the time the wagon reached the hunting lodge, Morrigan had a good fire going, and the cold inside had lost its edge. She found a willow broom and furiously, muttering curses, she swept out ashes, bits of hide and bone, and other souvenirs of the last tenants' visit. She found the well, broke the surface ice, and brought in a pail of clear water. If not luxurious, the lodge was habitable for the night. If Flemeth had taught her nothing else—and she had—Morrigan knew how to work hard.
"Yeah, I remember this place!" Brosca beamed, looking about the lodge. "Good times had by all! We had a really tasty stew here, and hot cider. I'd never had that before. It was really good."
Morrigan fussed a little, annoyed at the lack of privacy. The lodge had a loft, but it was low-roofed and too creaky for safety. They camped for the night and prepared a substantial meal. The following morning, the Avvars agreed that it would be wise to clean the place somewhat, erasing the signs of their visit. Morrigan and Anders took to the skies, scouting out the rough road that led from the hills in the direction of the Imperial Highway. It was a circuitous route, but a dwarven trader would attract no notice there. The wagon trundled forth, and soon was a little toy-like image in the distance. Their part of the mission complete, Anders and Morrigan flew back to Gherlen's Halt directly, taking the precaution to shift back into human form out of sight of the fort. They were able to report that Brosca was on her way.
Loghain was busy, planning yet more renovations to the Fort: novel, vicious improvements to standard defenses. Bronwyn had a different scheme before her, and by the time Anders and Morrigan returned and rested, she was almost ready to put it into action.
The access point they had used to reach Gherlen's Halt was close to Aeducan Thaig, which Bronwyn had previously explored and which was clear by the time she finished with it, some months ago. Admittedly, the darkspawn might have returned, but that would be contrary to their experience so far. Studying the map, she looked at the network of roads around Orzammar. The road to Aeducan thaig, of course, was south, and was the route taken by all dwarves striking out in the Deep Roads. However, there were other, more ancient pathways.
The road that led west from Orzammar was blocked now, and the barrier door never opened. However, it was possible to reach it from the other side by going west from Aeducan Thaig. When one reached the turn in the road that led south to Caridin's Cross, one could continue west, instead. A branch of the roads led up toward the Imperial Highway and stopped abruptly. One could also keep heading west toward another ancient thaig.
Rousten Thaig, so close to Orzammar, had not been lost in early Blights, but was abandoned now. At some point there had been an access point to the surface, which the dwarves used to deal with the elves of the Dales. Laying her onionskin map of the Deep Roads over her map of Thedas, it was indeed clear that the access point was not far from the ancient elven city of Halamshiral.
Bronwyn was not sure she wanted to go that far. Jukka thought it possible that they might find another, closer exit to the surface.
"This whole stretch is pretty close to the surface, anyway—see the elevation, Commander? Look here, right at the Solidor Pass, where the Frostbacks peter out. The Highway runs through it. I don't think they planned a way to the surface there, but there could have been a collapse, like the one at Kal'Hirol. Or we might be able to break through ourselves."
A secret route to the surface just over the Orlesian border would have obvious advantages. Bronwyn planned to take her Wardens and the Legion and look into it. Loghain was all for it.
"Wouldn't the Orlesian Wardens know about it?"
Bronwyn kept her smile unseen. It was impossible for Loghain to say the word 'Orlesian' without snarling it.
"I don't know. It depends on how diligently they've studied the maps in the Shaperate. That's where our information comes from. I know nothing about any explorations made by Orlesian Wardens. When I was in Orzammar, no one spoke of having seen any other Wardens there recently, which I think is odd. One fellow at Tapster's Tavern mentioned Duncan. I get the impression that everyone goes through the front door at Orzammar, rather than looking for the old entryways, but of course I really know very little about how the Wardens actually function." She shrugged. "If I run into Orlesian Wardens, I have a perfect right to be in the Deep Roads."
"Well," Loghain sat back in his chair, tapping his fingers on the writing table. "See if you can find us a way into Orlais not too far from the border. I'd like it best, if we could get near Chateau Solidor. We could completely ignore the Rock: close it up, dry up its supply lines, starve it out." He saw her exasperated look and waved her objections away. "I'm not proposing starting anything. If the Orlesians do, we'll want options."
Brosca enjoyed the journey with Ostap and Bustrum. They were good, solid fellows, and she never objected to a lot of muscle on a man. They told her about the best taverns, and she told them about Tapster's in Orzammar and the snobby Gnawed Noble in Denerim. At the end of a long, hard day, they saw the towers of Jader in the distance, and beyond it, the flat grey expanse of the Waking Sea.
"Who runs this place, anyway?" Brosca wondered, drinking from her fine, looted silver flask, a trophy of Kal'Hirol.
"The Marquis of Jader... Marquis Bohémond de Mauvoisin-en-Fermin," essayed Bustrum, stumbling over the nasals.
Brosca snorted brandy through her nose. "You're kidding, right? What's a markee, anyway?"
Bustrum shrugged. "No, I swear by the Mountain Father: that's the bastard's name... or as close as I can get. A Marquis is like an Arl, I think. Some sort of rotten Orlesian noble. Korth knows the Fereldans can be bad enough! This one wears a fancy mask with jewels."
"Why? Is he that ugly?"
"All rich Orlesians wear masks. Too good to show their faces to the likes of us," said Ostap, shrugging.
"If that doesn't beat all!" Brosca marveled. "I like seeing new things. Are these jeweled masks... valuable?"
The men grinned, but Bustrum said, "It's worth your head to take a noble's mask."
"Is it now?"
As they came nearer, and the sun drooped lower in the western sky, Brosca admired the city walls. High, thick, and stony they were, with watchtowers spaced out at frequent intervals. The gate they were headed toward was heavily guarded with really big guards. In comparison, Brosca felt fairly small. It helped her put on her humble merchant persona, which was all to the good.
Everyone entering the city was stopped and questioned. Everyone had to pay. Some poor folk—elves, peasants—were turned away, and when they protested, pleading the cold, they were driven back with fists and sword pommels.
"That's friendly," muttered Brosca.
"That's Orlais," grunted Ostap. "It's why we don't come here much." He drove the mules forward into the queue at the gate, and they waited to be questioned and fleeced in their turn.
"Eh! Baudin! Look at the little flower between the two great oafs—pardon, I meant 'oaks.'
His partner sniggered. "Good one, Thibaut!" He smirked at Brosca. "So, Nainette, you wish to enter Jader?"
"That's the plan. Can you bold soldiers recommend a good inn?"
Thibaut looked into the wagon, poking at the scanty contents: a few furs, rustic woodcarvings, and a skein of spidersilk. "Business not so good, hein?"
"Could be better, could be worse. I need to rest the mules, have a long hot bath, and restock with trade goods for the rubes up in the hills."
The guards chuckled, not unsympathetically. Thibault said, "First you must pay the gate tax. Ten silver."
Ostap pretended outrage. "The last time I came here, you only charged me two!"
Baudin fixed him with a contemptuous smirk. "Did you have a cart?"
"Yes."
"How many wheels?"
"Two."
"Ha!" Thibault spread his hand. "The price is higher per head and per axle. Ten silver, or go back to the hills and eat snow."
"Fine, fine," Brosca had a separate pouch for silver, and kept her gold in a money belt under her apron. She counted ten silver into Ostap's vast fist. "Pay the man."
"Ah-ah," Baudin wagged a finger. "Perhaps you do not understand. It is ten silvers for each of us."
"You could give lessons to some Carta guys I know," Brosca sighed. "All right, another ten."
Thibault gave her a wink. "Try the Paragon's Cup by the Grand Bazaar. It is popular with dwarves, and the ale is not so completely piss as that of others."
They entered through a fortified gate area, and then to the gatehouse in the inner wall. Here they were held up again, this time for only ten silvers. Brosca had decided that Jader was a very expensive city, but admired the wide avenue in front of them. Bustrum told Brosca that this was the famous Voie D'Or—the Golden Road—that led all the way through the city to the Grand Bazaar, and then to a huge courtyard called La Place Emeraude, with the Chantry on the south side and the Marquis' palace opposite on the north.
"And to east and west, some noble houses that'll make your eyes pop," grunted Bustrum.
"What's that noise?" Brosca asked, stopping in her tracks. Carried on the air were musical notes, like a giant hand plucking a giant harp. "It's kind of... nice. Like music."
"Bells," said Bustrum. "The Chantry has these big bronze bells, and every hour they ring them. They're like bronze bowls with a bronze thing inside that hits them. They make different pitches depending on the size."
"That's a neat idea."
As they rode on, there were fine stone buildings that Brosca took for nobles' houses, until Ostap informed her that they were barracks. Passing them the other way were some splendid warriors on horseback, wearing shining armor like Loghain's, but with gorgeous masks covering their faces. Some were silver; some were gold; some were like the faces of animals, and some modeled into expressions of laughter or fury. Some had jeweled eyebrows, or were plumed with feathers, or were enameled in vivid colors, giving them faces that were half red and half blue.
"Don't stare at them," warned Ostap. "Those are chevaliers. If they think you're disrespectful, they've got the right to skewer you on the spot."
"Wow. Makes me feel right at home."
It was a good thing that she was well-supplied with coin, because the Paragon's Cup was not a cheap inn. Despite that, Brosca liked it, because this really was a dwarven inn. The furniture was mostly dwarven-scaled, the chairs and benches low enough that her feet were firmly on the ground, not swinging free like a child's. The tables also low enough that she had no fear of barking her chin on the edge. A few human-sized chairs were ranged around the walls for human customers. The innkeeper was a fat dwarf with an elaborately braided beard. His daughter worked the bar, and huddled by the fire sat the innkeeper's aged father, now past everything but lap robes and small beer. On the old man's withered cheek was a faded brand. Brosca's gaze paused at the sight of it.
What do you know? Another Duster who made it out!
Brosca looked around the room and saw other marked dwarves. Here and there she saw some who had tried to hide their brands. One dwarf woman wore heavy cosmetics, but they could not disguise the area around her left eyebrow. Nobody here seemed to much care. Certainly Brosca herself roused no particular interest: a blunt-faced, stocky woman in unassuming garments. She sighed a little, imagining the reaction her beautiful sister Rica would arouse.
It cost plenty to put up the mules and store the wagon in the inn's stable, and then there was the matter of their own lodgings. Brosca insisted she only wanted one room, and that she and her 'guards' would share it. There were raised eyebrows and some shocked whispers, but Brosca sneered at them, and downed her fancy foreign ale, indifferent to the opinions of these Orlesianized dwarves. The food was pretty good, too. Her companions found sufficiently large chairs, and dragged them over to Brosca's table, sitting sideways, since their knees would not fit underneath.
Obedient to orders, Brosca kept an ear open to gossip. Right now, the talk was not about Orlais, but about Orzammar.
"At last we've got ourselves a new Paragon! Ancestors be praised! Paragon Astrid has cleansed the Deep Roads!"
Brosca resisted the urge to correct the drunk, since only one Road was clear, and Astrid had not exactly done it all single-handed. Brosca liked Astrid, but she was hardly due that much credit. It had been something of a shock to learn she'd been made a Paragon. Not that it mattered, as long as Bhelen was still king, and little Endrin was still the heir. Luckily, other voices were already challenging such exaggerated praise.
"How long do you think the Amgarrak Road will be free of darkspawn, Gorbat? Going to try your luck in Kal'Hirol?"
"Why not?" slurred Gorbat. "The Paragon has taken Dusters with her, and they will be given caste and clan as payment for good service! Why shouldn't she take surfacers?"
"As servants, I reckon. You want to go?" sneered the challenger. "So go. Guess you won't be needing that fine house in Forge Alley anymore."
"Or his fine wife, either," gibed another. "Leave her to me!" The dwarf made a brief, explicit gesture, and Gorbat lunged at him, spilling chairs, table, men and drinks to the floor.
"None of that!" roared the innkeeper, hefting a maul. "Boys! Throw the drunk out or I'll bash him!"
A pair of bouncers grabbed Gorbat by the arms and dragged him away from the bar.
"Hey!" he protested. "I paid for that drink!"
"Fine," said the innkeeper, "Here!" And tossed the brandy in his face.
Wet and angry, Gorbat was thrust outside, and the door slammed.
Into the laughter, Brosca said, "Ah, peace and quiet at last. Tell me more about this Paragon. I've been out in the boonies."
Some of the story was just about right. They knew that Astrid was an Aeducan, and the king's sister. They knew she was a Grey Warden. Lowering their voices, they revealed that she was the best friend of the fabled Girl Warden, the Dragonslayer. Brosca made a face to herself at this part. Astrid wasn't a bit better friend of Bronwyn's than Brosca herself.
"Right," said the loudest talker. "It's the Stone's own truth. The Paragon is best friends with the Girl Warden, and she's now the Queen of Ferelden. I tell you, we've got better times ahead, now that we've got some people on top who know how to fight darkspawn!"
There were rumbles of agreement, while Brosca mentally headslapped herself.
Shit!
Shit! Nobody thought to tell the Wardens and Legion who went to Orzammar to shut up about Bronwyn becoming Queen!
Dwarves were the worst gossips in the world. Of course the Legion had told everybody about their adventures with Bronwyn. What Brosca didn't quite get was how news of Bronwyn had slipped over into Orlais.
But that would be the dwarves again. Orzammar was not far from Jader, and there would have been talk about Bronwyn when she was in Orzammar, settling the business of the King; and then again, as couriers went between the army and the King. The Orlesians must know plenty about Bronwyn. They knew where she was when they sent assassins after her, anyway.
Apparently, it was gossip people had to be careful about. The innkeeper interrupted the story, sullen about it, since he liked a good tale as much as anybody.
"Sod the Girl Warden! Talking about her will just bring the Guard down on my inn."
"What's wrong with her?" Brosca asked boldly. "Aren't Wardens supposed to fight darkspawn?"
A dwarf woman sniggered. "Fereldans aren't supposed to be any good at it! They were supposed to come crawling to the Empress for help!"
"Right!" roared the innkeeper. "One more word, Myrta, and you'll follow Gorbat out the door!"
Myrta put up her hands in mock submission, and started a card game with the people at her table, grumbling. From outside came the muffled sound of bells again, playing another tune, and then striking the same tone repeatedly to tell the hour. Brosca could not remember if they had anything like that in Denerim. The Wardens' Compound was far from the Cathedral, and Brosca certainly had not heard beautiful tunes in the air.
Another handful of dwarves came in after the bell song, talking about their day. Apparently they were working down at the docks, building something or adding to something, and there were a lot of technical problems.
"Hard to lay stone proper in the cold," one complained. "The mortar isn't drying right. I told that fool Thierry that we should wait until the end of Guardian, but he claims that it has to be done by then. Humans are idiots about stonework!"
Hearty agreement and hearty drinking followed. Brosca gave her Avvar companions a wink, and told them to move to a table of their own. If she was drinking alone, someone was more likely to come and sit down with her. Once again she sighed. If she looked like Rica, everybody would be wanting to sit with her. She might even get a free drink.
"Mind if I sit here?"
Brosca gaped at one of the stonemason crew. He was youngish, with a soft pale beard and mild blue eyes. He had stone dust under his fingernails that he hadn't quite succeeding in scrubbing away. A mason, for sure.
"Suit yourself."
"I haven't seen you here before."
"Never been here before. I've been trading in the hills. My first time in Jader."
"Well! That calls for a celebration. Let me buy you a drink!"
To Brosca's astonishment, he actually did just that.
"The name's Torvald."
She gaped at him again, before replying, "Freydis." Unconsciously, she touched the mark on her face. The young dwarf noticed it.
"Nobody cares about that, up here on the surface. Freydis. Nice name. Here. Jader brown porter, coming up. When did you get out of Orzammar?"
Brosca snorted. "Am I that obvious?"
"Pretty much," he said cheerfully. "This year, right? Deep down dwarves have that look in their eyes."
When lying, you should always stay as close to the truth as possible. "Yeah," Brosca said. "I'd managed to put a bit of coin together, and I was never going to be able to do anything with it in Dust Town, so I walked out the door. I bought a wagon off an old human guy, and tried trading for the past few months." She jerked her head toward Ostap and Bustrum. "Those two are my guards. I've done all right, but this whole weather thing kind of came as a shock. I mean, really—frozen bits of water coming down everywhere! The unfrozen kind is bad enough when it falls on your head."
They both laughed. Torvald said, "I'm surface born myself, but I've heard my grandfather complain about weather often enough. Actually we surfacers complain about the weather all the time. It's like a spectator sport, since we can't do anything about it."
"So what's it like, here in Jader?" Brosca asked. "I've tried the countryside, but I thought I'd try a human city, too, and see if I can do better here."
He made a face. "Human city? I suppose you could describe it that way. The humans are in charge, for the most part. Actually, they're a minority. If you add everybody else together, there are more dwarves and elves in Jader than humans. You must have noticed all the dwarves on the street around here. The Paragon's Cup is on the edge of the dwarven quarter."
"Is Forge Alley in the dwarven quarter?"
"Yeah. You know somebody who lives there? That's expensive."
"No, I just heard people talking about it. I didn't see any walls or gates around this place."
"You mean like the Alienage? Stone preserve us! The humans wouldn't dare treat the dwarves like they do the elves! They need us to keep the city running. Without us the plumbing wouldn't work and the walls would collapse!"
"I can believe that," she agreed, her voice dry. "From what I've seen, the humans are good mostly for putting the screws to people for money. They got thirty silver off me at the gates!"
"Ouch! You must have looked prosperous to them. The City Guard are pretty greedy, but mostly they stay bought once you buy them."
"How about this Marquis guy? Is he all right, or is he like the usual deshyr bastards?"
Torvald barked a nervous laugh. "Is not like I know him personally!" He lowered his voice. "Full of himself like all the nobility. Doesn't pay his bills on time—he ordered new armor from my cousin Jervyk two years ago, and still hasn't paid for it. But that's the nobles for you. I've heard of tailors and dressmakers who went out of business because the nobles wouldn't pay up. The best maskmaker in town tried to start a policy of cash on delivery, and the nobles raised such a stink about it that the Marquis ordered a mask, and then walked off with it, telling the woman to send him a bill. "
"Why do people put up with it? Why not go to another city?"
He shrugged. "It's Orlais. All the cities here are like that. It's a big deal to uproot yourself and your business and start over. I'm luckier than most. My uncle Magruk over there—he's got the contract for the improvements to the docks, and if he and his crew don't get paid, we down tools. The Marquis nearly ordered him beheaded the first time, but he really wants this project done, so the wages have been fairly steady. Afterwards…" he blew out a breath. "Well, Uncle is talking about Kirkwall."
"What about Ferelden? Isn't that closer?"
"I suppose. There's a lot of money in Kirkwall, though." The young dwarf turned red, embarrassed that he had let so much slip about his uncle's troubles. In fact, Magruk Showat expected to be arrested and his assets confiscated on completion of his work in the dockyards. It was the Marquis' default remedy when he owed anyone too much coin. The family had a plan in place to take ship just as they received the next-to-last payment. The work would be incomplete, and they would forgo the promised bonuses, but his uncle knew that those were a lie, anyway. And they had not the least intention of going anywhere near Ferelden, having heard was was headed in that direction next spring.
"So… 'docks'…." Brosca paused, as if unused to the term. "Docks are where boats tie up? By the sea? I've never seen the sea. Is it big?"
"Is it big?" Torvald was amused. "Look, it's not dark yet! I'll show you the dockyard where I'm working. It's not for little boats, but huge warships! It's the biggest dockyard south of Par Vollen… or so I'm told. Finish your drink. It's not a bad walk."
He paid for the drinks, which still surprised Brosca, and they pushed back from their chairs. So did the two Avvars.
"My bodyguards," Brosca said, gesturing. "Ostap and Bustrum."
Torvald's eyes widened. "They're… big. Hi!" he smiled weakly, waving at the huge Avvars. He whispered to Brosca. "Do they have to come with us?"
She whispered back. "They're guards. They can't guard me if they're not with me."
"Do you trust them?"
"They haven't slit my throat yet."
This was not exactly what Torvald had pictured, when he asked an attractive young dwarf woman to go walking with him. Behind them, looming like golems, were two huge and tattooed Avvar rangers. Torvald had seen Avvars before—mostly in the process of winning barfights—and had no intention of offending them. And in a way, it was fairly reassuring, after all. Jader appeared civilized, but was hard as nails beneath the mask. Outside, The sky was shading into sunset colors of rose and gold, and it was not so cold that a stroll was unpleasant.
Torvald, a native of Jader, could show Brosca the sights far more effectively than the Avvars. It was actually a lot of fun. From a street vendor, he bought a skewer of little spicy sausages for each of them, and they strolled along, munching.
"So," he asked, "Isn't it scary, traveling out in the hills by yourself with just those guards? I mean... don't you have... I mean, wouldn't it be easier if you had a husband... or something?"
"You're asking me why there is no man in my life?" The memory of Cullen struck her hard and twisted her smile. "I did. He's dead."
"Sorry."
"It's the past. What's that?" she asked, pointing to a grate at her feet.
"Sewer drains. Jader has a big pipes running under the street to take the runoff when there's a heavy rain. The sewers also take the night soil and filth from the middens and dump it out into the sea."
"How big are these pipes?
"Big," said Torvald. "They have to be big enough for dwarves to get in and repair them."
"That's interesting." Brosca found the fact that there was a maze of tunnels under the city very interesting indeed. "What's that gate down there?"
"That's the Alienage. You don't want to go there. The elves are practically feral, I'm told. Every so often the City Guard goes in there and thins them out."
Brosca threw him a glance. A nice guy, but somebody who believed everything he was told. He wouldn't last a minute in Dust Town. When Torvald turned back in her direction, she pasted a smile on her face.
He pointed out the Grain Exchange, and the Guildhall, and took her through Forge Alley, to see the high-class dwarven houses.
"See? They're built just like Orzammar!"
"Er… Yeah." She rolled her eyes. Clearly, he had never been in Orzammar. This was a fantasy version. With a sky. And no lava. "It's nice." That much was true.
It was cleaner than Denerim, for sure. Coming through an archway, they found themselves back on the Voie d'Or. Within a few steps it abruptly opened up into a vast open square, dominated by a pair of huge, magnificent edifices.
"Whoa!" Brosca was genuinely impressed. "They're really… green…"
"Genuine greenstone," Torvald assured her. "Really old dwarven construction. That's the Emerald Palace, where the Marquis lives. Up on that tallest tower, they say the Marquis has a pleasure garden, when he can walk without have to look at common folk."
It was quite the tower, Brosca agreed. Nowhere as tall as Fort Drakon in Denerim, and in a far more decorated style, punctuated with balconies and bas-reliefs. The Palace boasted a pair of shorter towers as well, which were obviously used for keeping watch.
Torvald pointed in the other direction, at a massive structure crowned with a bell tower than soared over the city. This, obviously, was where the bell sounds had come from.
"And that's the Chantry, where the humans worship Andraste. Masons come here to study the designs. Now and then it needs repair, too. My uncle's worked on it. There was a huge storm back in 9:24, and a lightning strike melted the lead sheathing up on the roof. " He pointed. "The lead poured down and killed two priests. Really… it coated them in molten lead, and smiths had to melt it again to get the women out to burn them. Not that they needed it by that time. We can go inside the Chantry if you like."
"Maybe later. I'm really excited about seeing the sea." For a moment, she felt an odd buzzing sensation, but it was weak, and she was too distracted by all the sights to worry about it.
Across the street, a pair of Grey Wardens stopped, puzzled, and looked about.
"Did you feel that, Constant?"
"Yes. But who—?"
The man's gaze wandered up and down the street. He saw no Warden brothers, but only a well-off woman and her young daughters, a pair of big Avvar barbarians, and a dwarven couple doing some window-shopping.
"Odd. I was sure I sensed another Warden."
Brosca peered into beautifully decorated windows. A lot of shops in Jader had glass windows and fancy goods displayed in them, which Brosca thought was completely crazy.
"What's to keep somebody from smashing the glass and grabbing that jewelry?"
Torvald was a little shocked.
"Well… at night they shutter the windows, and a lot of shops have guards. And in this part of town, the City Guard would come down pretty heavy on anybody who tried it."
"I see."
The sun had set by the time they reached the dockyards. Coming down some long, elaborate steps, they saw the vast extent of them spread out before them. Brosca did not have to pretend to be impressed. Many of the ships were in drydock, but some dared the cold. Nearby were merchantmen, broad and high-decked. Further on, beyond a low defensive wall, were a series of piers. To her right, jutting out from a retaining wall, were three large round stone tunnels, each of the mouths carved at the top with a coat of arms.
"Those are the sewer openings?" she asked Torvald. "What's the fancy design?"
"That's the Jader coat of arms. It's a drake breathing fire."
"Neat. What are all those wooden platforms the other direction?"
"Those are the naval dockyards of the Imperial Eastern Fleet," Torvald told her. "That's where we're working. They need berths for a lot more ships."
"Can I see? Can we get close to the water?"
Rica could have pleaded with a lot more charm, of course. Brosca tried to remember all the tricks Rica's teachers had drummed into her. They seemed to be working.
"I guess. I think I can get you in, but the guards, no."
"I'll be all right," Brosca said to her Avvars, her face innocent as a new-born nug. "You guys get some more sausages while you're waiting."
The guard at the sea wall knew Torvald, but raised his brows at the girl with him.
"She's with me," said the dwarf.
"She looks harmless," shrugged the guard. Brosca gave him Rica's sweetest smile.
Brosca rubbed her hands with glee, once back in the privacy of her room at the inn.
"Too bad he has to work tomorrow!" she said. "What a nice guy!"
Ostap nodded sagely. "The Orlesians are building ships. Many warships."
"Not just warships!" Brosca sat on the bed, wrapping her arms around her knees, smug as a cat. "Lots of troop transports, too! I dithered and acted like a silly sight-seeking girl, and Torvald went on talking with that other dwarf at the docks. The guy said that 'everybody knows about the invasion.' And then they talked about improvements to the barracks to hold the troops they're expecting. Yeah, it's an invasion, and they're going to launch it from Jader!"
"We must report to Loghain right away!"
Brosca protested. "We just got here! I bet there's a lot more we can find out. Besides, Torvald gets the day after tomorrow off!"
But it was not to be.
"Brosca! Run faster!"
"I'm running as fast as I can! Turn here!"
It was always something. Just as she was eating breakfast, that pair of Wardens showed up, asking questions.
"Who are you? What are you doing in Jader?"
"I don't see that it's any of your business, pals."
Then it went downhill, with outraged squawks of "Spy!" and "Fereldan Dog!" And "Nug of a Dwarf!" which was actually pretty funny. Luckily, they had no idea that Ostap and Bustrum were with her.
Thus, it was no particular trouble to knock them in the head and throw them out the window. Brosca suspected that it was considered bad manners to kill other Wardens, but letting them catch a bit more sleep was only the friendly thing to do. The innkeeper lost his temper about the broken window, and Brosca and the Avvars took to their heels, dashing down the street, pursued by two bouncers, the innkeeper and his maul, and the yells of the innkeeper's daughter, wanting to know "who was going to pay for this?"
They rounded a corner, skidding on a patch of ice, and Brosca pointed, charging ahead.
"I've got an idea!"
It worked because Ostap had no problem lifting half his weight in wrought-iron. They lowered themselves into a sewer, pulled the grille down after them, and then it all depended on Brosca's stone sense underground to head in the direction of the sea.
It wasn't a tight fit, even for the humans. These were huge cylindrical tunnels, part stone masonry and part molded concrete. They stank, of course, though not nearly as badly the Deep Roads. They were a lot wetter, but the water was never as high as the tops of Brosca's boots. They were not even particularly dark, because of the grilles set into the streets above at intervals.
The three of them moved as silently as possible, holding their weapons close against their bodies, pausing when they heard voices overhead. Rats squeaked, dashing across their path.
At length they saw a circle of light ahead of them, and hurried toward it. Up close, the sewer mouth, dribbling a thin stream of fecal wastewaster, was simply enormous. Between Bustrum's rope and their own brute strength, they managed to lower themselves to the rocks below and make their way along the narrow strip of coast until they were past the city walls.
Then there was the rough scramble up a steep, snowy slope and a weary march ahead of them
"The innkeeper shouldn't be all that mad at us," Brosca pointed out, sniffing dubiously at herself. "He gets to keep the mules and the wagon."
Thanks for my reviewers: EmbertoInferno, Girl-chama, Blinded in a bolthole, KnightOfHolyLight, Enaid Aderyn, RakeeshJ4, Garm88, anon, Nemrut, Mike3207, Isala Uthenera, Anime-StarWars-fan-zach, EpitomyofShyness, Kyren, Ie-maru, anon, Robbie the Phoenix, Zute, amanda weber, Have Socks. Will Travel, JackOfBladesX, Phygmalion, PhantomX0990, Jenna53, KrystylSky, DjinniGenie, Costin, MsBarrows, Josie Lange, jnybot, dragonmactir, mr I hate znt nobles kill em, and Josie Lange.
I know that Gaider in the wiki and in interviews says that Orlesians don't have regular titles, because Emperor Drakon made them null and void. However, canon is completely inconsistent. We meet a Duke Prosper de Montfort, and in Asunder, there are standard titles right and left. For purposes of this story, I am throwing out the earlier claim that Orlesians only use strange and fanciful titles.
About the Orlesian language. I'm not trying to have the Orlesians speak French outright here. If it were a completely different language, I don't see why all Orlesians nobles would speak Fereldan. I'm going to pretend that it's a different dialect, with a heavy accent (to Fereldan ears), and some unique, archaic words and expressions. More like the difference between English and Scots (I don't mean Gaelic, but Scots, which is also a Germanic language), than the difference between English and French.
I'm still debating the next chapter. It's either going to be rest of the events at Gherlen's Halt and the nearby Deep Roads, or the Nevarran embassy. Perhaps the Gherlen's Halt chapter would make for a better flow. They happen concurrently.