After another two days, Talvinder cannot defend the monotony of travelling by foot across the plains and hill-lands. Not even for the view. The mountains seem to remain always the same distance away, fixed to the horizon permanently, and it's enough to sour any mood. Except Alistair's, of course. He finds plenty to smile about, from playing fetch with Abarie—and occasionally Sher, too—to games of travel ostensibly learned from his time in the Wardens. Some are, undeniably, better than others. Today's is not.
"I spy, with my little eye," he says, for what must be the hundredth time that hour, "something blue." Leliana lets out a groan, but still she answers.
"Is it the sky again?"
"Wrong." The glee in his voice is bizarre. Surely Alistair's feet must hurt just as Tali's do? And besides, he's said 'the sky' about twenty times already. Leliana grumbles in frustration as Alistair wiggles the stick he's been carrying since that morning in front of Abarie's nose. The mabari lets out a little bark and wags her short stump of a tail, eyes fixated on the branch in Alistair's hand. "What's that, girl? Do you know what it is? Something blue? What is it?"
"A dog cannot speak," Sten says, his deep voice tired and weary—not from travel, though, that much is clear as he walks next to Savreen on feet that are still light and energized. He avoids looking back at Alistair. It's almost enough to make Tali chuckle. Almost.
"Now, now, she's not just a dog. She's a mabari."
"That makes no difference. And if it is not the sky, then what on earth could it be beyond your own armor?" That does make Tali chuckle. Alistair clicks his tongue in response, wagging a finger as he tosses the stick forward, past Sten and down over the crest of another small hill. Abarie takes off, kicking up grass and dirt as she speeds out of view with a joyful borf of a bark.
"A close guess, my friend, but not quite! And besides, as they always say: mabari are smart enough to know not to speak. Certainly she knows the answer."
"If it's not the sky and it's not your armor," Tali finally speaks, and Alistair's huge grin as he turns to her has her struggling to control the twitching in her own cheeks, "then what is it?"
"You know perfectly well I've given you the maximum number of hints," he says, falling into step beside her. He points his nose to the sky, acting smug and condescending, and, on a whim, Tali reaches out and flicks its tip, just above the nostrils.
"Hey!" Alistair tries to sound indignant, but the laugh in the back of his throat ruins that attempt. "Alright then, I'll say it again. I spy, with my little eye, something blue." As he speaks, a number of things happen. He reaches out and flicks Tali's forehead, right at the edge of her patka. She jumps, but not because of the impact of his fingernail on her skin: at that very instant, Abarie lets out a yelping snarl that's quickly cut off, and it shrills through Tali's ears like a blade scraping on glass. An arrow zips through the air, thudding into Alistair's armor, then another, but this one catches Sten on the side of his elbow, grazing through his sleeve and breaking skin.
It's bizarre, how silent it is. There's a heartbeat where Tali stares at the arrow on the ground, and then she realizes that Abarie is still silent, over the hill rise, and she turns and sprints, shield already on her arm and sword in her hand. Savreen shouts her name, warning her not to barrel ahead, but it's too late, because Tali sees her dog muzzled and restrained, flanked by several figures. The one at the center, an elf with bronzed brown skin and dark blonde hair and thick black tattoos on his cheek that mimic the swoop of his smirking lips, stands and watches as Tali runs into view. His eyes, though, are listless, emotionless: practically lifeless.
"The Grey Wardens die here," he says, in a voice as cold as the Antivan steel daggers he draws from matching sheathes at his shoulders.
It happens quickly. The others crest the hill and reach Tali's side just as the elf does, daggers swirling faster than Sav's swords, slicing at her like gnashing, hungry fangs of steel. With a grunt, she bashes her shield forward, throwing the elf off balance, but another arrow whizzes past her, so close to hitting its mark in her eye socket that she feels the fletching strike her cheek. Her heart pounds.
"Archers!" she screams, hoping against hope that Morrigan will take care of it, or Leliana, or any of the others, because there's nothing she can do except focus on the fight right here, in front of her. The elf bears down on her again, and the ferocity on his face still fails, strangely, to reach his eyes. But his strength and his blows do not suffer for it—not a whit. Tali manages to avoid the snarling blade of a dagger as it whistles past her throat, but not the solid hilt of the other blade, not as the elf smashes it against her jaw.
Pain blooms under Tali's skin, dull and hot, and she stumbles, slightly dazed by it. A sharp smile rises to the elf's lips, one devoid of joy, and he twirls his blades in his hands in a flourishing display. He thinks his next blow will hit home, Tali realizes, still wobbling, as time seems to slow. She can't let it. Clumsily, she drops and scrambles back, mostly avoiding the dagger that darts toward her throat again. It still slices the skin of her cheek, in a line that runs up past her ear and into her hairline. She thinks she hears the sound of fabric tearing as it hits her patka.
On the ground, Tali watches as the elf's expression changes, the smile vanishing from his lips. She's dimly aware of the other sounds of combat around her, sounds which are beginning to quiet as assailants fall—on which side, she isn't sure, but there's no time to turn and look, no room to take her eyes off the elf who continues to approach her. Tali realizes that she's panting heavily, the sound of it echoing in her ears. There's liquid running down her face and it tickles—sweat, she thinks, but then it hits the corner of her mouth and she can taste it just enough to know it's blood.
She has strength, size, power on her side, but the elf has agility. She has to end this soon, or the slice to her cheek won't be the worst of her worries. But she doesn't move, not right away. Instead, Tali watches him stalk toward her again, mouth set in a thin, unhappy line. He comes closer, and closer, and she's sure he should know what she's about to do, but still, he approaches her anyway, and then, when he's within an arm's length, she moves, slamming her shield into his ankle and bringing him down with a thud as she rises to her feet above him, sword in her hand and blade at his throat.
Everything is quiet, now, dead silent, and when Tali looks around, she realizes that it's because her companions have dealt with the other assailants. Relief spirals through her and she looks back down at the elf on the ground just as he grabs a dagger once more, trying to slice the back of Tali's leg and bring her into throat-slitting distance. Her eyes meet his and his hand pauses, the blade a hairsbreadth from the back of Tali's knee. She acts before she can think, lashing a metal-toed foot out at the elf's head, and his hand falls back into the dirt, dropping the dagger with barely a noise as his eyes close.
She knows, though, that he paused on purpose.
They've grown complacent. That much is clear to Savreen as she stares at the bodies littered across the ground before them.
"We all in one piece?" Alistair yells, breathless. One by one, they sound off. Leliana, Morrigan, Ranjit, Sten. It gives Savreen time to take stock of her own body, and luckily, she notices no injuries to herself. They've made it out of the fight a little bloodied, but none the worse for it.
"Fine," she calls, but Tali is still silent, staring at the elf who seems to have been the leader of the small group of assassins. "Tali?" Savreen approaches her, resting a hand on her cousin's arm, and when she turns and looks at Savreen, there's confusion in her eyes, under a smear of blood that paints the side of her face. "Tali—"
"There's something not right." Tali interrupts Savreen, and she's so absorbed by whatever it is she's observed that she barely reacts to a freed Abarie rushing to her side to sniff her, nose nuzzling and snuffling in consternation.
"What do you mean?" Slowly, Savreen reaches into a pocket, searching for a bit of cloth to press against the slice in Tali's skin. It doesn't look deep, but it is bleeding something fierce, staining the light blue fabric of her patka and dripping down her jaw.
"He hesitated." When she finds a handkerchief, she pulls it out and brings it to Tali's cheek and browbone. Her cousin winces as the fabric touches her skin, but reflexively brings her own hand up to hold it, applying pressure to the wound there. "He could have…finished it," Tali says, not quite meeting Savreen's eyes as the others gather round the two of them. But Savreen knows what she means, and there's a somersaulting in her chest at the thought of the elf's daggers finding their target. "But he waited. Something isn't right about this."
"She is right." Sten's voice rings out over all other sounds, and when Savreen turns her attention to him, she sees his eyes scanning the scene before them. His hands follow his gaze, gesturing at the fallen bodies of the other assailants. "These are no assassins." When she looks more closely at the nearest figure, Savreen understands what he means. His sword lies next to him, and the pommel blooms with small spots of rust, the blade notched and old, dull and disused. As she watches, Sten approaches the man, turns his body over, and examines his hands.
"His calluses are those of a mason, not a swordsman."
"Are you saying that these people are just…" The aghast tone of Leliana's voice is matched by the horrified expression on her face, and even though she stands feet from any of the bodies, she still recoils into herself.
"Stonemasons. Miners. Perhaps farmers." When Sten meets Savreen's gaze, his eyes are grim. "Is the elf dead?"
"No," Tali says with a shake of the head.
"He has many questions to answer, then."
"Should we not just kill him before he wakes?" Morrigan's voice causes Savreen's lips to tighten, pursing into a thin line. She catches Ranjit's eye and sees anger and annoyance flashing there, and knows she has to say something to keep the elf alive, no matter the situation.
"If we do that," Savreen says, pulling rope from her pack, "we'll never know who sent him. Or what they know about our plans." It's an excuse, yes, but it's also something that Savreen would very much like to know.
"Loghain sent him. He must have." Rage simmers in Alistair's voice, about as unhelpful as Morrigan's apathy, if somewhat more understandable and relatable.
"We don't know that for sure," Ranjit says, voice stern as he checks the bindings on the elf's wrists and ankles. "And besides, even if you're right—if we don't speak with him, we'll never know what it is Loghain knows, let alone his plans. Perhaps there are more assassins waiting for us."
"Assassins that seem to not actually want to kill us? That doesn't seem too bad." Tali's words are lessened of their sarcastic potential somewhat by the way she winces as the cut on her cheek stretches, but they still bounce around Savreen's head regardless. Why did he pause? Why did he wait to strike the final blow in his fight with Tali? It doesn't make sense. And to hire peasants, trade workers as backup, rather than other trained killers—that makes even less sense to Savreen.
"We wait for him to wake up," she decides, announcing it to the others. "He has a great many questions to answer." No one disagrees. Not that there's much room for that. They don't have many other options, if any. If the way ahead is littered with more assassins, more obstacles, they need to know. So, while the others begin to awkwardly collect the bodies of this, the second group of would-be assassins that they've encountered since leaving Ostagar, Savreen sits, and she watches the elf breathe shallowly, and she waits.
Her patience is rewarded hardly a half hour later, when the elf begins to stir with a groan. Almost before his eyes are open, it seems, he gathers that he's been bound, and when he looks up and around and his eyes land on Savreen, his expression is already sharp and calculating.
"I rather thought I would wake up dead," he says, in a lilting voice with a heavy Antivan accent, the sounds of his r's almost rolling off his tongue. And then he smiles, his teeth glinting pearly against his handsome lips. "Or not wake up at all, as the case may be. But I see you haven't killed me just yet." The humor makes Savreen even more wary. Danger comes in many forms, but it remains most threatening when cloaked by joviality.
"You seem awfully glib for a prisoner." It's a simple observation, but it's all she's willing to give away at the moment. It makes the elf chuckle, a dry, throaty noise, and Savreen narrows her eyes. Reading him is hard. Without speaking, Ranjit joins her, peeling away from the others to stand behind her like a guard, hands resting on the pommel of his sword. She watches as the elf's eyes, dark brown like her own, flicker across Ranjit's form, and she's sure the way he stands, ready to strike should the elf try anything, doesn't escape those eyes at all. The smile on the elf's face falters slightly, and his tongue darts out and across his lips before he speaks again.
"It is my way, or so I am told. But to the point. I assume you kept me alive to ask me some questions, yes?" Savreen nods and opens her mouth, but the elf hasn't finished speaking yet. "Let me save you the time and get right to the point. My name is Zevran. Zev to my friends, though your position as regards that title is clearly yet to be decided. I am a member of the Antivan Crows—" in the background, the leg of one of the deceased assailants slips from Leliana's grasp, thudding to the dry ground and distracting Savreen for a moment— "and I am here for the sole purpose of slaying any surviving Grey Wardens. Which I have failed at, sadly." The elf, Zevran, does not sound the least bit sad about his failure, and Savreen can't help it—she lets out a small laugh of incredulity.
"Sadly? I speak not only for myself when I say that I'm rather happy you failed." Zevran nods, the same winning smile still plastered across his face. He speaks as though, for all intents and purposes, he is discussing the recent weather over a spread of chai and mithai.
"So would I be, in your shoes. For me, however, it sets a rather poor precedent, doesn't it?" There's a hint of sarcasm in his voice, and anger, hidden underneath his placid mask, but Savreen can't quite tell where its root is. "Getting captured by a target seems a tad detrimental to one's…budding assassin career."
"Care to tell us who it was that sponsored this 'budding career' by hiring you to kill us?" Savreen can match this Zevran's energy easily, and match it she does—if she's going to get the measure of him, she wants to try every possible angle, every approach. This new, conversational tone from her makes Zevran smile even wider, and there's a hint of recognition in his eyes. He speaks as he moves into a sitting position, the twisting motion a tad awkward thanks to the way his hands and feet are tied, but he manages.
"Ah, now that would be a rather taciturn fellow from the Capital. Loghain, I think his name was?" It's everything Savreen can do to keep her face neutral. Alistair, however, doesn't care to hide his reaction, not as he perks up across the site of the attack.
"Loghain. I told you." His voice is brittle, and Savreen watches as Tali places a gentle hand on Alistair's elbow. Her fellow Warden takes a breath, but as soon as he is calm once more, he approaches Savreen, Zevran, and Ranjit, a hand on his sword. Tali follows behind, eyes never leaving the figure of the elf, sitting cross-legged in front of them all. When Alistair speaks again, his anger is submerged, simmering beneath the surface but held back. "You were hired by Loghain? You're certain?"
"The old general? Hero of River Dane, King Maric's rumored lover, now the devastated Queen's regent? That Loghain?" Alistair grits his teeth, and Savreen keeps her eyes locked on Zevran.
"Yes, that Loghain."
"Indeed." There's a flare of anger in Alistair's eyes again, and Zevran notices it instantly. "Mind you, I've no idea what his issues with you are. The usual, I would imagine: you threaten his power, create some administrative inconvenience for him. I've been contracted to perform many such services for many such nobles—they are all the same at their core."
"And now that you've failed to complete said 'service'? What happens?" At the sound of Savreen's voice, Zevran turns back to her. He hasn't cracked, his expression the same manufactured smile. Shrugging, he answers, and his tone is as airy as if he were discussing the merits of Seheron dates over Orlesian raisins.
"Well, that happens to be between Loghain and the Crows. And also between the Crows and myself." Savreen doesn't miss a beat after he falls silent.
"And between you and us?" There's a fleeting second in which Zevran's eyes narrow, his lower lids twitching up. Savreen thinks she sees his gaze dart around the group of them, as though he's thinking about something.
"Isn't that what we're establishing now?" Luckily for Savreen, the smile that stretches across his face this time seems ever so slightly strained. She's getting somewhere.
"Indeed it is. When were you to see him next?"
"I wasn't." At Zevran's words, Alistair grunts, and when Savreen turns to look at him, she sees rage in his eyes, a frown twisting his mouth. "I am sorry to disappoint any hopes of ambushing him," the elf directs his words towards Alistair, which only makes Alistair scowl more deeply. "But if I had succeeded, I would have returned home and the Crows would have informed your friend Loghain of the results of the contract—that is, if he didn't already know. If I had failed, I would be dead." He pauses, taking some time to glance down at his body, very much not dead. "Or I should be," he continues with a genuine smile, "at least as far as the Crows are concerned. No real need to see Loghain then, as you can imagine."
"If you had failed?" Savreen's eyebrows raise as she repeats Zevran's emphasis back to him. Perhaps it's a tad silly, but if he hadn't just tried to kill them all, she thinks she might be laughing. Zevran, already clearly a master of shrugging, shrugs once more.
"What can I say? I am an eternal optimist. Although, the chances of succeeding at this point seem a bit slim, don't they?" He's the only one who laughs, the sound echoing across the hills. It makes Sten, Leliana, and Morrigan stiffen where they stand, still dealing with the bodies of the other assailants. Alistair and Tali exchange bewildered looks, and Savreen simply stares at Zevran as Ranjit steps a little closer to her, hand back on his sword. When Zevran meets Savreen's gaze, he quickly quiets his laughter and clears his throat, bringing his bound hands up to cover his mouth. "Ah—no, I don't suppose you would find that funny, would you?"
"What is going on?" Alistair asks, the question directed to no one in particular, and when Zevran turns to him, the assassin grins a little.
"Well, I just tried—rather unsuccessfully—to fulfill a contract on your life, and now—"
"You know that's not what I mean."
"You'll have to be more specific, then." Dumbfounded, Alistair watches the elf a moment longer before speaking again.
"Where on earth did the Crows find you?"
"A brothel." Zevran's voice is matter of fact, and Alistair brings a hand up to his nose as he grimaces in beleaguered confusion.
"I didn't mean literally—"
"Yes, Alistair, the assassin is a funny man. Will you let him continue answering important questions, now?" Morrigan's approach and her chastising voice silence Alistair fairly effectively, and he holds his tongue while Zevran continues to smile at him. Silently, Savreen contemplates death. Or silence. Though it does seem that death is her only recourse to find silence, at least in this group. She grits her teeth and tries to focus, focus on the task at hand. There's a question that is more important than nearly any other, a question she needs an answer to before they take another step forward. Zevran doesn't seem to be the type of person to lie—unless, of course, he's been lying this whole time. Somehow, though, that doesn't appear to be the case, and she has to ask the question anyway, so why not see what his answer is?
She crosses her arms and shifts her weight, moving her body to block the sunlight falling onto Zevran's frame, forcing him to look up at her.
"How did you know where to find us?" Zevran sighs, bringing both bound hands up to scratch at a spot just below his ear. He considers for a moment, rolling his tongue against the inside of his lips before clicking it against his teeth and finally speaking.
"Shall we just say that your departure from Redcliffe was hardly covert, and leave it at that?" This is not unexpected, Savreen thinks, but it is a blow. How she wishes Teagan had been quieter—how she wishes that they had stolen away in the middle of the night rather than left under fanfare.
"Are you saying there are spies in Redcliffe?" Frustration crosses Zevran's face at this question, and it strikes Savreen as something more genuine than any of his previous reactions.
"No. I am saying that there were those who were required to discharge a final service to Loghain, or risk the consequences." When Zevran looks into Savreen's eyes again, squinting against the sun, she thinks she might possibly understand—this is about choice, for the elf. She has only a few more questions; indeed, she needs only a few more to know if she's right.
"How much were you paid?" Crossing her arms over her chest, Savreen watches as Zevran processes the question. For a brief second, there's a sense of uncertainty in his eyes, as though he isn't sure what Savreen is trying to accomplish through this. But she knows, and that's all that she needs.
"I wasn't paid anything," he says after a long minute. "The Crows, however, were paid quite handsomely. It is the way of things—which does make me about as poor as a chantry mouse, come to think of it." No matter what his true feelings are, the smile and the air of control are back, settled across Zevran's shoulders like a heavy cloak. Obscuring. "Being an Antivan Crow isn't for the ambitious, to be perfectly honest." She's close.
"Then why are you one?" When Savreen squats down in front of the elf, finally bringing her eyes level to his, he flinches nearly imperceptibly. But he does answer, and he answers with his eyes boring into hers.
"Well, aside from a distinct lack of ambition, I suppose it's because I wasn't given much of a choice." There it is. Savreen notices as she watches him that there's a scrape on his head, hidden behind his hairline, sending blood trickling down and into the curved cartilage of his ear. She wonders how close to death he really came in this fight. Too close for a man of such experience. The hatred in his voice tells her everything. "The Crows 'adopted' me young. I was a bargain, too, or so I'm told: a nimble boy well able to cover the cost of his own food and board in pockets and locks picked. But don't let my sad story influence you. The Crows aren't so bad: they keep one well supplied, well distracted. Wine, women, men, oblivion, whatever it is you happen to fancy." Savreen has seen this kind of hatred in Alistair's eyes before, in the moments when he thinks no one is looking, but Zevran locks it back away relatively quickly, more quickly than her fellow Warden. "Although, the whole severance package is garbage, let me tell you. If you were considering joining, I would really think twice about it."
"I'll keep that in mind," Savreen says, but it's really the furthest thing from her mind. "Do you have an agenda in telling me all this?" In response, Zevran shrugs his shoulders.
"Why shouldn't I? I wasn't paid for silence. Not that I offered it for sale, precisely."
"And I don't sense much loyalty to your employers—neither the Crows or Loghain. Care to explain that?" Another shrug, but this time Zevran's smile is more pointed. He knows that she knows, she's certain.
"Loyalty is an…interesting concept. If you wish, and you're done with your interrogation, perhaps we can discuss it further." All the others have gathered behind Savreen now, each one of them watching and listening. She notices, though, with a strange sort of combination of pride and frustration, that not a one of them has anything to say, leaving it all to her. At least she knows what her decision will be already.
"I'm listening, go on." Savreen is still crouched in front of Zevran when she gestures for him to speak, gloved palm held out as though to take hold of his words. Slowly, the blonde elf clears his throat and shifts his weight a bit.
"Here's the thing. I failed to kill you all, so my life is forfeit. That's how it works. If you hadn't killed me—or if you don't kill me, though somehow I rather think you won't, the Crows will." He pauses here for a long time before he continues. "The thing is…I've come to the realization that living would be preferable. And you all are obviously the sort to give the Crows pause. So let me serve you, instead."
"Serve?" The word is harsh and heavy.
"I have a number of skills—"
"That's not my concern." Savreen doesn't want anyone to serve her. "Is that what you want? To serve?" Another pause, another beat in this interrogation turned conversation, and Zevran looks into Savreen's eyes for a long time. She tries to reassure him without words, because she knows there's only one reason he failed in his mission. There's only one reason anyone as skilled as him would ever fail.
"No, no I would rather not."
"You won't turn on us?" It's a formality, that question. His answer is hard and brittle; bitter.
"I happen to be a very loyal person. Up until the point where someone expects me to die for failing." That's not all of it, not by half, but Savreen will let it go. He needn't tell them all his secrets at once.
"They'll come after you," she says. A statement, a given. The jagged look in Zevran's eyes shifts slightly, sparkling and cracking as he smiles tautly, angrily, genuinely, with a sort of hunger.
"Almost certainly. I happen to know their wily ways, however. I can protect myself, as well as you." Here, Zevran breaks his gaze from Savreen's face, glancing around at the others. "Do we have a deal?" Though he looks still at all the others, Savreen knows the question is meant mostly for her.
"Wait, you mean you want to—he just tried to kill us, didn't he? Or was I imagining that?" Alistair's indignation is mixed with confusion. "And he works for Loghain—"
"I worked for the Crows. Loghain's business is his own." The two of them glare at each other, Zevran's face pulled once again into that dangerous smile of his while Alistair scowls. With a sigh, Savreen turns ever so slightly toward Alistair, not moving her body from where she crouches, still mostly facing Zevran.
"He's given us plenty of reason to trust him. We're down one of our party with Jowan gone." Tali shifts on her feet, biting her bottom lip, but Savreen continues. "Clearly he has no love for Loghain, and we need all the help we can get." She isn't mad, exactly, but she is frustrated, and the irritation she's been fighting back for days now rears its head at the excuse of Alistair's short-sighted desire for vengeance against everything Loghain touches. But she stays calm, even if her tone is a bit clipped. "Besides, he knows more than we do about Loghain's plans, or what Loghain knows about our plans, for that matter."
"She is correct," Sten says in his soft and deep voice, and the agreement surprises Savreen, making her whip her head around to find him. She moves so fast she loses her balance, forcing her to steady herself quickly. The Qunari's eyes are fixed on Zevran, a hand rubbing in thought at his sharp chin. "One must keep one's friends close, but their enemies closer. We have had no opportunity to learn anything meaningful of the General's plans. We cannot squander this opportunity."
With Sten's confidence on her side, Savreen looks around at the others.
"Are there any other objections?" Alistair sighs and steps back, rubbing his neck. But he shakes his head when Savreen looks to him. She turns instead to Leliana, Morrigan, Tali. They remain silent. Truthfully, she hadn't expected Tali to have anything to say, not in general, but especially not after Jowan. Morrigan's silence, though, puzzles her.
When Savreen turns to Ranjit, he, too, says nothing. For a moment, she wonders if he remains silent out of disapproval. But then he pulls a dagger from his belt and hands it to Savreen. He needn't—she has plenty of blades with which to cut Zevran's bindings—but it isn't about need. It's about his approval. She tries not to smile as she brings the blade to the rope, cutting the elf free. At last, the two of them stand. When Savreen returns Ranjit's blade to his hands, her fingers linger on his.
"Here's to a prosperous partnership," Zevran says. He takes a few brief seconds to rub at his wrists before holding out a hand to Savreen. He looks up at her, and she looks down at him, and then she takes his hand and shakes it once, twice. "Where to next?"