Chapter 55: The Fox's Tail

Arlson Ronan Crewe

A fox has sharp teeth, but they are a last resort. The fox avoids the trap and thinks its way out of the collapsed den. The most you should ever see of a fox is his tail, for if you catch a glimpse of his tail it means he is far enough ahead of you that you will never lay hands on him, for he is fast and nimble. He not only survives, but he survives well with other animals that overlook him or perceive him as harmless. One need not bite the heel of the retreating hind when one can reach its throat as it grazes near the brambling brush, unaware of the danger. Teeth are for when the strike is assured, rather than expend needless worry and rush.

My oaf of an older brother, Fendril, used to bemoan the fact that our family crest was a fox. He always fancied himself a wolf or a bear.

"Foxes are pathetic scavengers," he would mock, "They are forced to wait until the big animals eat their fill and settle for crumbs. Such a symbol is fitter for a beggar than an arl. When I become arl after Father, I will change our family crest to a beast better to my liking."

He boasted this one night as he swilled his cups with a handful of his men, howling in approval, cheering the man whether out of blind loyalty or healthy wariness. They aped him to appease him most times. I calmly smiled, nodded and filled his tankard as a dutiful younger brother should, keeping my teeth covered, though I could feel them behind my quirked lips.

It was not the time to smile full. It was not the time to show the keenness with which I was endowed. I had no fear of Fendril, for the witty need not fear the witless. He was easy to manipulate with ingratiating words and subtle suggestions that were so seamless that he took them for his own thoughts.

Dear doltish Fendril! He couldn't see the beauty of a foxes' wiles that coiled like cunning snares around his ankles.

A fox need not strain his paws or maw. The larger predators may glut themselves on fur-lined muscle and touch sinew in their haste to swallow and fill their bellies. The fox knows the sweeter delicacies that a larger muzzle cannot reach and takes full advantage of the predators' flesh gorged sleepiness to do as he pleases.

Fendril was the perfect wolf or bear. He made my diversions so much easier for my father placed all authority and responsibility as a mantle on his shoulders, as was his due as the eldest son. His shadow was large enough for me to hide behind.

Father was cunning, but had become complacent and too secure in his own power. He had become too reliant on his teeth. I assume his relationship with Arl Boese had been similar to the one I had with my brother. I suspect that my father had been encouraging him to help overthrow my uncle, Arl Trian. For years Trian managed to avoid most of their machinations through sound governing tactics. He was calm and level headed while Boese was petulant and impatient. My father managed to keep Boese focused and lucid through diversions and distractions.

My father discovered the one known weakness of the Arl of Herfirien in his own den. After years of neglect and disregard, he finally took note of my blossoming sister who my uncle doted on. He knew there was good hope that the childless Trian would bestow his wealth on her. By arranging a marriage between Boese and my sister, it was possible that they would be able to achieve what had eluded them through previous guile.

However, my sister had wit in equal measures to her spirit. She was a true fox that slipped the trap my father and Boese had set, stealing the bait from under their noses. The disappointment of their rich dreams was enough to drive a wedge between them. That was when my father began sending me to be company for the boar for he grew weary of baiting and appeasing him. He took me for granted, assuming I would merely keep the boar complacent.

While I curried favor from the boar's bristles, I met Ser Manning, the sullen renegade Templar. Boese had given him quarter on his lands at my father's insistence. My father reasoned that having these Templars as a threat would keep the surrounding Avvars in check. The raids cleared a number of tribal villages before the Avvars relocated higher into the mountain ranges. Once the Avvars had served as examples, the villages of Swidden became more subservient.

Boese and my father never spoke in depth with Manning or discovered what drove him. To them, he was simply a means to an end and they cared not for the past that he left behind or why he had fled his duties from the Chantry. He was no more than a scarecrow. They provided him with lyrium to keep him and his few subordinates lucid and beholden to them which they purchased through a discreet carta based out of Orzammar.

It had been my father's recommendation, but he had been sure that all dealings had been done in Boese's name. There was little done by either Boese or the Templar's that could be directly connected back to him.

Father was a cautious fox in some aspects, though not all.

A man can be careful in using a tool, but unless he learns all facets in which the tool might be used, he can lose a wealth of opportunities. I became VERY well acquainted with the tools at my disposal. As such, I learned all I could glean from Manning.

When the lyrium supplies from Orzammar dried up in the past year, due to a power struggle among the stone dwellers, we had to adjust. We were never given the specifics, only that the death of the dwarven king had led to the dissolution of the carta which we had done business with previously.

Resultantly, for a time, Manning became near crazed without his lyrium and during this time he had experienced disturbing dreams that caused a reawakening of his previous drive in his faith. He insisted that he had received a mandate from the Maker to reverse the grave injustice that the current Chantry was perpetuating. His reliability deteriorated as concerns with darkspawn raids rose.

We had been aware for some time of an ancient entrance into the Deep Roads through a forgotten dwarven city just within the large, ornate gates. When we had heard warnings of darkspawn raids in the south, my father suggested that perhaps we should secure the opening so that we could be sure that it would not be used by the darkspawn to attack Boese. An exploration party was gathered, which my father insisted I join as his emissary to oversee the expedition along with Manning.

The city was deserted with no sign of darkspawn, just a heathenish stench. There were tools and strange mechanisms that reminded me of windmills. We even found a decrepit storehouse that had abandoned lyrium corked into ornate bottles with strange, dwarven writing. The Templars and Manning practically wept with relief over the find and I, being the leader, distributed and rationed our find. We returned to the surface, but I had found a way to better strengthen my standing with Manning.

When I reported our discoveries to Boese, I made it a point to sigh, "Tis a shame that you could not arrange for the lyrium from the forgotten dwarven city to be mined! It would enable Manning and the Templars to have access to what they need at no extra expense to you and no need to develop tasteless associations with unsavory characters. It is probably for the best, though, you would need workers to mine it. There would be too much lyrium produced from such a mine and what would you do with so much?"

Boese had a gleam in his eye as he considered my words, sitting beside his fireplace. Within the week, he commanded Manning to gather some workers and begin extracting the lyrium. In a month Manning had an entire system in place that was efficient and produced large yields that provided what the Templars required to maintain their sanity and focus. There were even large quantities to spare and it was stored for later usage.

While I consolidated my position as liaison for both Boese and Manning, reporting selectively to my father, he had begun to revisit his old plans again. Word had returned to him of a masked bard travelling around Ferelden after the fall of Denerim. He began to wonder if she might be lured back, but I had been unaware of his machinations for a time as I began to broker a potential marriage for Boese, one that would offer him a larger realm of power and enable me to further move from beneath my father's thumb.

By the time my father broached the subject of an alliance between Swidden and Cloughbark, my plans had already been finalized. I had to scramble however to come up with a reasonable alternative so that my father would not become aware of how deep my influence had become with Boese. My father needed to believe in his absolute control over the situation.

To be fair, Mae was the ideal candidate for what Manning desired. Though the new source of lyrium provided Manning with more stability, he had been shaken by his dreams and had a new mission. He confided that he had to model himself after his religious ideal so that he could begin to wrest Thedas from the control of the Chantry.

"A sacrifice, a message," he insisted, "The sin will be burned away, first symbolically, then in truth. I need a vessel, Arlson! You have been the instrument of the Maker's provision previously; I trust you will assist in this holy mission."

It only took a dropped hint to my father that my sister would need a far stronger hand than Arl Boese to tame her. Though Boese was formidable, Templars were far more disciplined and trained to bend others to their wills. Somehow these images were pleasing to my father who, after being made a fool by my prodigal sister, desired her to be humbled. Manning was strong and would brook no insubordination from the brethren beneath his lofty perch, how much more could he restrain a wife.

My father liked Manning's initiatives. He liked the meddling Chantries dissolved, for they would intercede where he strove to crush. He liked the peasant resistances broken and the people fearful, for it made them rely on his "kindness" more and prevented them from questioning him. He was the demon they knew rather than the armored savior who would cleanse their homes with fire.

Making Manning a permanent asset, assuming that a connection through marriage would offer my father more leverage, seemed a reasonable compromise to him. He foolishly thought he could control Manning in this fashion, which isn't surprising because he once thought he could control my sister. In that, as a couple, they could prove more similar than different. It did not occur to Father to question Manning's intentions towards Mae, and I am not sure it would have mattered if he had known what roiled within the Templar's inflamed, holy passions. Father was practically begging Manning to make an alliance with our family through marriage, reassuring him that my sister would eventually bend with the proper coercion, a fitting challenge for a Templar to bring the wayward to heel. Perhaps Father believed the lie on some level and Manning took him at his word. I sat back and smiled to myself as they gripped hands over their accord.

Yes, my sister would be the perfect vessel and would strengthen my hold on Manning while my diplomatic abilities brokered a rise in position for Boese through conquest and marriage. With Boese establishing himself in Denerim as the Consort King, I would run his land and the mine with the support of Manning. Manning would maintain order in the lands while I planned my next great coup. I was satisfied with allowing my father try to wrest control of Herfirien and my brother, Fendril, to inherit Cloughbark. I would not be caged by the Cauldron, for I planned to use it as a stepping stone, climbing on the backs of the vain men who believed they controlled this small corner of Ferelden.

My sister, however, would not be easily maneuvered. She was the thorny rose that would not be picked. She inadvertently drew my doltish elder brother to his death and lead to a reshuffling of positions that had the potential to undermine all that I had worked to establish for myself. She had the potential to pull the whole den down around my ears and my sire could become aware of my dealings away from his wary eyes.

Fendril was a fool, but he was a necessary fool. I did not suffer the fool; I used him as was my wont.

Murchad was timid, but he was not a fool. If he stumbled upon my plans he might accidently break all I had worked hard weave or draw my father's attention to my larger endeavors. My two younger siblings were pulling at the strange threads that threatened to unravel the planned tapestry. They had to be dealt with.

Sending Murchad to the mines had been easy enough, since Manning reassured me that workers succumbed fairly regularly and he was quite weak in his constitution. He would fall in the darkness and my father would be unaware. Father would believe Manning's missive that Murchad had fallen to a band of darkspawn and would not mourn the loss. My brother had always been superfluous in his eyes.

Arranging for Mae to be Boese's guest was also easy. It meant she had to be isolated, but Boese's house at Swidden offered the perfect parapet to house the little bird. I had arranged company for her and the sweet balm of sleep was provided for her entertainment. The warden was in no position to go against me, for I offered the only key of escape from the old boar that had terrorized her. She could tell no one else of my plans or our deal. What more would I need?

I entered the study that evening, after the dusk. I had joined Boese for the evening meal, regaling him with the progress of his armada and invasion force. It was not a huge army, but it was planned to be a decisive strike that would crippled Denerim's already weak defenses. He smiled and laughed and planned for his triumph on the waves. He drank deeply the wine and then excused himself when the strong liquor began to weaken his ability to remain awake. This was ideal for me since I would have the opportunity to consider the final arrangements in peace away from his bumbling suggestions.

Boese was certain of his victory, but in truth it was going to be my triumph and the old man did not even know it. My foxish Father was in his den, counting the days until he could undo my Uncle. My final, rival brother was wallowing in the dark caves, doomed to madness and death. My sacrificial offering for my henchman was safely housed in a tower, unable to fight or fly. Everything was assured, or seemed to be.

The room had not initially seemed amiss. The scattered missives littered the desk, the scraps from my midday meal had not been cleared from the side table, for which I would address the few staff on tenure, but it did not distress me. It all seemed much how I had left it, but on seating myself I noticed that the wardrobe door was slightly ajar, the dust on the handle disturbed and the carpet on the floor had its tassels scuffed up, as if the door had been opened to its full extent and had flipped it back onto itself.

When I got up to examine it closely, I discovered that Boese's old hunting cloak had been removed. He had not gone hunting during the previous three weeks since the weather had begun to chill and all his attention had been directed towards mooning over soldiers and his promised bride. He would not have had opportunity to retrieve it for any other purposes that I could reason. My eyes fell on the closed chest, but when I tried it myself, I found that the lock had been compromised when someone for someone had pried it open. Things had been removed, not the least of which was a bag of coins.

I returned my attention to the desk and started to feel the heat swell in my face. The recent rendering of the map of the pass through the mountains was missing. We had other copies, so the concern was not that it was lost, but the concern was how it had disappeared.

My eyes narrowed as I exhaled in one long suffering sigh.

The staff would not have touched the desk or the chest. They were too fearful of Boese and what he would do to them. To be cast off and banished from the household so close to the winter would be a death sentence and there were so few maids that they could not hope to hide in numbers. There was only one in residence on the estate who would dare to steal from Boese and might have need of the map.

I rang the alarum bell, gathered a small group of guards and marched to the tower.

The porridge that rained down on us from the upper window was answer enough of what we would find. The face in the window was not the defiant mien of my sister; it was the mute bird keeper. The indignant cries of the guards drowned out the growl that rumbled in my own chest.

Before I entered the cell in the tower, the woman cast herself down from the window. It spared me having to throw her from it, which robbed me of a certain amount of satisfaction. If I had my wont, I would have cast Mae from it on the first day she had arrived, but I had stayed my hand in hopes of reaping my needs from her marriage. I had far more patience than my Father, but she was fast wearing it thin.

What drove people to die for that ratty slip of a woman? She had no gracious beauty since Father had marred her. It was baffling how so many could love her and it was enough to overturn the careful plans of so many for their love seemed more powerful than their fear and their desire for preservation.

I sent word to Manning that we would have to go hunting in the morning, for I would not lose sleep over her that night. I would not expend myself farther than necessary for I knew she was on foot and I knew what direction she was bound. She could not get far stumbling in the darkness, regardless of what she had been taught by the Avvar witch-nurse that had waited on her in her youth. I had too many advantages and she too few.

It might have been considered unsporting, but I did not do this for sport. This was necessity. I had come too far to be caught by my tail because of a vixen.