Daylight, thin and cold this high in the Frostbacks, illumines the small, makeshift village of traders set up outside the gates of Orzammar. Talvinder is relieved to finally see it, but too tired to be elated. The road up to the gate has been far from treacherous, but it certainly has been steep, and now her feet protest at the myriad pebbles and bits of gravel stuck in her boots. Nevertheless, she is ready to walk the remaining paces to the gate, and she becomes downright eager when she thinks about the amenities of a city like Orzammar (surely there are inns, with tubs, and almost certainly there will be hot water). Savreen, though, stops her in her tracks, throwing her arm out in front of her younger cousin to keep her from moving any farther forward.
When Tali looks at Sav with confusion, all Sav responds with is a jerk of her head and a pointed glance toward the ornate gates carved into the mountainside. Tali looks once more at the gates, really looks, and she understands Sav's caution. A small group of three soldiers, wearing the colors and livery of the house of Mac Tir, stand there, discussing some unknown topic at length with the guards posted at the gate. Next to Tali, Alistair tenses angrily, and she can do nothing but tap his hand with her own.
"We wait for them to go." Tali has no choice but to accept Sav's order, because that's exactly what it is—an order. The others do the same, pulling cloaks tighter around their shoulders, yanking collars higher over their jaws, trying to obscure their faces by any means necessary before they melt into the small crowd of market stalls one by one.
Tali hangs as close to Alistair as she dares, nerves thrumming in her fingertips. Her heart thumps at a wild pace, and she tries not to imagine that Loghain's soldiers have their eyes on her. How recognizable is a tall woman dressed in blue, accompanied by a mabari? She tries to be as casual and normal as is possible, gazing emptily at the wares laid out in front of her with just enough concentration to feign interest and not enough to actually know what it is she's looking at. Even Abarie seems to know that they're hiding from something, what with the way she crouches in on herself, ears close to her skull. It's not long, though, before a commotion breaks out at the gates. Vendors all around turn, craning their necks, and Tali is given an excuse to turn, too.
"You have allowed the fugitives entry into your city!" One man, most likely the leader of Loghain's soldiers, shouts, jabbing a finger at the chest of a dwarven guard. "There can be no other explanation for it, be it by your incompetence or by the conscious undermining of the Lord Regent's orders!" It seems that a fight is brewing, but whether that is to the benefit or detriment of Tali and the others, she can't be sure. The uncertainty makes her heart beat even harder, painful against the back of her ribs.
"Watch your tone, topsider. Mighty foolish of you to accuse Orzammar of such a thing." The guards will not back down, that much is clear.
"It is you who are the foolish one! If you have defied Loghain and the Queen—"
"We have our own rulers. What your Regent or your Queen say has no bearing beneath the stone."
"So you admit that you harbor the fugitives!" As Loghain's soldiers reach for their swords, Tali tenses, waiting for the clang of steel, trying to decide if she should be prepared to dart into the fight or run far away.
"Our patience grows thin. We have told you already, topsider: there are no Grey Wardens in Orzammar. The Assembly will hear what your Loghain has to say only after they recess from the chambers."
"Your patience? Your patience?!" Alistair brushes his hand against Tali's arm and when she turns briefly to look at him, she sees the same anxiety, the same calculation of their odds running across his face. At the gates, the soldiers and the guards continue yelling. "You've been refusing us entry to the city for weeks with that same excuse, while bloody merchants and mailmen pass through!"
"Yes. You are correct." Tali makes to look about the market, trying to see where the others are and what they might be doing, to figure out the best route back down the mountain should they need to run. Sten at least is easy to find, standing by a bakery stall, but his posture is nonchalant and disinterested. He stands out only due to his height, and somehow looks as though he is meant to be there nevertheless. It reminds Tali how little she knows of him. "Merchants and mailmen both happen to be in possession of travel writs, granted by the Assembly. Which, as I explained last time you yelled at me, you do not have." Leliana and Zevran both are impossible to find among the small sparse crowd, and Tali gives that task up, looking instead for Morrigan.
"You're doing that on purpose!" The witch is leaning up against a makeshift shed, a half-eaten apple in her hands as she watches the altercation with a distinctly bored expression.
"Telling you the truth? I should think so." Ranjit, over by a stall of weapons, looks nervously toward the gates, but he apprears no more nervous than the nearest shopkeeper.
"This attitude will not be—"
"Then go back to Loghain, topsider. Tell him all about it. You will not gain entry to Orzammar until the Assembly allows it, no matter who you complain to." When Tali's eyes finally find Savreen, tucked away among the vendors' stalls with Sher at her side, her cousin seems unbothered by the loud exchange. She isn't about to run, at any rate. That calms Tali somewhat.
"Loghain will hear of this." The threat is remarkably empty, without teeth or claws or any real sharpness. In response, the guard laughs, a snorting sound that says he's expected this tack since the beginning.
"Fine. Off you go now." There's a moment where the soldiers stand there, staring at the guards, anger seething. Tension crackles through the air and the whole of the small market seems to hold their breath as they wait to see if these topsider soldiers, Loghain's men, will finally draw their swords and attack.
Instead, with a yell of frustration, the commanding soldier wheels on his heels and hurries down the stone steps, taking them two at a time. The others follow him, cutting through the market with rage almost incandescent on their faces. Everyone quickly resumes their activity, pretending—even if only halfheartedly—not to have been watching the altercation unfold. As the soldiers near Tali and Alistair, the two of them whirl back to face the market stall in front of them. Tali thinks she hears the soldiers slow, and then she knows she does, because the clink of their armor has ceased. Heart pounding, she grabs Alistair's wrist, and he looks at her with wide eyes before he suddenly clears his throat, speaking to the dwarven shopkeeper in front of them.
"You said all these are, um, hand-made?" His voice is too loud, but it would seem the shopkeeper tracks it up to the awkwardness of the whole scene. She smiles as though holding back a laugh, and nods, the golden clasps on her finely brushed beard shining with the movement.
"Made by myself, young man. I trained with the finest smiths in Orzammar and in Denerim, mind you." The soldiers draw closer, and Tali can feel their eyes on the back of her head. She can't panic. She must join whatever conversation Alistair is having. She looks down at the table in front of her, trying to breathe.
It's covered in jewelry, glinting gold and silver bracelets, rings, earrings, necklaces. She almost laughs when she looks back at Alistair, or she would if she had anything but a knot of nervous energy wrapped up in her chest.
"It's quite—quite lovely," she says, her voice not quite convincing enough, and she reaches a shaking hand toward the first thing she can see, can reach. The ring that she finds her fingers grasping is a delicate thing, made of lyrium-infused silver that glows a faint blue in the light, set with a single, simply faceted white gem. The soldiers behind them pick up their pace again, as though they're coming even closer, and Tali's heart stutters and restarts as she tries to remember how to speak. Alistair is, thankfully, ahead of her, and he clears his throat, taking the ring from her and holding it up to the light appraisingly. There's a look in his eyes that Tali doesn't quite understand, almost as though he's focused on this moment, as though this isn't just pretend—he's far better at leaning into lies than Tali's realized, she'll give him that.
"It truly is. But I wonder—the size—" Hurriedly, Alistair takes Tali's hand in his own and slips the ring over her finger. It fits, far more perfectly than it should, and as it does, the soldiers pass them, without incident, without even looking.
"My, it compliments the lady's eyes very well!" the shopkeeper says, and when Tali looks at her, she sees a faint sparkle in the woman's eyes. As the pounding of blood in her ears finally recedes with the jingling sounds of the soldiers' armor, Tali looks back at Alistair once more, then down at her hand, at the ring on her hand, shining atop skin still dusty from the road.
"Oh—oh! I don't—Alistair—" The soldiers reach their horses, climb atop them, and kick their stirrups to spur the beasts off. A series of loud whinnies and the thunder of hoofbeats signals their departure, but Tali finds herself in a new predicament.
"We said we would wait, you see," he says, his voice thick and syrupy, a small smirk at the corner of his mouth. Tali feels her face flush with warmth as he turns to the shopkeeper. She isn't sure where he's headed with this—they should be extricating themselves, now that Loghain's soldiers have ridden off, back down the mountain road. But Alistair seems perfectly content to remain in this conversation, judging from the way he smiles, the expression almost mischievous.
"Oh yes, I see! Well, plans do change, do they not? That piece is one sovereign." Tali moves to try and take the ring from her finger, eyebrows flying up at the cost, but Alistair shakes his head.
"I can pay you seventy-five weight in silver," he says, and Tali finds herself staring at him, slightly open-mouthed. He's haggling. He's really haggling? Just a moment ago, she had thought they were about to have to fight their way out of this market, and now he's haggling on a ring that Tali thought was only ever a convenient cover.
The shopkeeper wrinkles her nose.
"Eighty-five."
"Eighty," Alistair fires back.
"Done." Tali still stares at Alistair as he pulls out his coinpurse and hands the money over. She barely hears what the shopkeeper has to say as they take their leave, and Alistair has to tuck his arm around Tali's waist to guide her away, her eyes still planted securely on him instead of the ground beneath her feet.
"What was that?" she asks finally, remembering to click her tongue to call Abarie and finding the dog already trotting along at her side. Alistair shrugs a little, the corner of his mouth quirking up into a poorly concealed smile.
"We needed a cover."
"You didn't need to buy—"
"Had to be convincing!"
"Alistair—" They stop just short of rejoining the others, who have all begun to cluster around the stairs leading up to the city gates, and Alistair turns to Tali. Finally, the smirk falls from his face, and he takes her hand in his, running a thumb over the ring.
"I don't know if I'll get to buy you anything ever again." He shakes his head a little, as though finding himself silly. "I wanted to, just this once. Even if it was just pretend. And don't worry, it's my own pocket money. Wardens used to get a generous allowance before—" Before he can finish, Tali grabs him, palms on his jaw, thumbs on his cheeks, fingers skirting the edges of his ears, and she kisses him. Just once, long and slow and full of words she can't say, but she kisses him.
"I should buy you things more often," Alistair says with a smile as they turn to join the others.
Savreen eyes the guards who stand at the great stone gate of Orzammar with trepidation. They seem to be irritated by Loghain's demands for their compliance, which gives her some small sliver of hope for their entry into the city. The undercurrent of her own fear, however, gnaws at her. Is this a mistake? Will the dwarves turn them over to Loghain? What will they do when—no. She's being foolish, letting her doubts in herself worm their way into the facts she knows. The dwarves remain firm in their sovereignty, they always have. They would never break the word of the Assembly or the Ancestors, that much Savreen knows from history and the teachings of tutor Aldous. She isn't sure what their response will be specifically in this case, though, and that continues to worry her.
As Alistair and Tali reach her, she holds her hand out in a request.
"Alistair, may I please see the treaty?" She pretends not to see as he pulls his arm from Tali's waist to reach it into the pouch at his hip, just as she's pretended not to notice anything for the past week. It's not that she disapproves, never that, but she and Tali have yet to speak privately. Yet another reason for the tension and anxiety that has become a near constant for her.
"Uh, yeah—yes, one moment." When Alistar hands the treaty to Savreen, however, she feels relief flood her system. This, at least, has gone right: the seal of the Assembly of Orzammar, a large ornate stamp, graces the outside of the treaty. They'll have a way into the city, if nothing else. What happens after is a different story.
"We have Assembly business. That's all we say." No one objects, but Savreen wonders if that's by their choice or by some belief that she's too controlling. She doesn't look at Ranjit, not when he, too, hasn't spoken to her in some time. Why, she can't say—only that she's caught him staring at her with eyes that make her think of anger and judgement, watching her with some form of appraisal ever since their departure from the Brecilian Forest. But he can tell her his reasons whenever he chooses. She will not ask questions of someone who doesn't wish to speak.
Ranjit, though, is not of chief importance in her mind right now. Or at least, he shouldn't be. Savreen turns to the stairs leading up to the gates, and with one last glance at the others, she begins walking up them. Her heart hammers as she goes, and she finds herself staring at the geometric designs carved into the mountain, trying to follow one single line from its beginning to its end, trying to calm the nerves in her mind. The 'gates' are more like massive doors, made of the mountain itself. How thick is the rock, she wonders? How heavy? If it were to crash down upon me—
"State your business. No one enters the city without the Assembly's word." The first guard—a dwarven man with skin nearly the same brown as hers and hair of deep bluish black—is blunt, but Savreen can hardly blame him after the attitude shown to him by Loghain's soldiers.
"We have business with the Assembly, sir," she says, and her voice sounds far away to her own ears. She will do something wrong, she is already doing something wrong—I am wrong. She tries to shove the thoughts down, and instead holds out the treaty, displaying only the distinctive seal on its surface. This is ridiculous. She has never felt this way about herself, about her abilities. She cannot feel this way now. She will not. The treaty in her hand shakes ever so slightly.
All of them wait. The guards look at the seal, then back at each other, and then once more at each member of the strange group standing in front of them. With one final look at the seal, though, they both nod and step aside. The second guard, a shorter dwarf with shockingly pale blonde hair and beard, grips a heavy lever and pulls it with a cranking sound, and slowly, ever so slowly, the gates to the mountain slide open.
"Welcome to Orzammar, topsider," he says.
It's a sight Savreen truly never imagined she might see outside of Aldous's dusty tomes. In front of them, the Hall of the Paragons stretches out, full of statues of revered ancestors, lit by carefully directed troughs of lava and the glow of lyrium, fiery orange and icy blue.
"You should be warned: the Assembly may not hear you immediately. They are deadlocked over—well. You could have chosen better times to visit." The second guard speaks, a touch of uneasiness and uncertainty in his pale blue gaze. At his words, the first guard throws him a sharp glance. Savreen narrows her eyes at the exchange, furrowing her brow as she looks back at both of them.
"What do you mean?"
"You'll see, topsider," the first guard says, an ominous tone to his voice. "Assembly chambers are in the Diamond Quarter, through the Hall and down the grand causeway to the right." With that, it seems they've been dismissed, and Savreen takes the first step into the great city of Orzammar, seat of the Dwarven Kingdom.
She tries not to stare at the immense statues that flank them, carved as though the heavy rock of their origin were mere clay. A few dwarven citizens mill about, some paying homage to the Paragons, some simply seeming to take their daily promenade. When they're about halfway down the long hall, the gates close behind them, thousands of pounds of stone scraping and singing as it moves.
"Is this a bad time to say I think I might be claustrophobic?" Alistair asks, rhetorical. Morrigan, however, responds, though Savreen doesn't hear her words, not as she's so concentrated staring at everything around her. When at last the hall opens up into the heart of the city, she finds herself nearly blinded by the warm yellow light that bounces off the shining surfaces of polished stone. More troughs of lava flow through the city, along walls and roads and down in the crevasses far below, streaming toward the smithies. They heat the air, also, and Savreen is grateful for the respite from the growing autumn chill.
"Now that is certainly a sight, no?" Zevran's wonder is nearly breathless, and were Savreen to speak, she's sure she would sound the same. The city is a marvel of engineering, construction, craftsmanship. It's a pity, though, that she doesn't have time to focus on sightseeing, no matter how much she would like to. She's already spent too much time in the few moments they've had. Instead, she casts her eyes toward the streets, searching for the causeway mentioned by the gate guard. It branches off directly to the right, circling around the inside of the mountain, down and past countless shops and homes. Before Savreen can direct the others to follow her down it, however, a loud shout draws her attention for the second time that morning. Her head whips toward the noise, on edge, almost expecting to see more of Loghain's men, or her own face on another poster, like the one from Lothering.
"Bhelen is the true king—you speak treason!" A group of dwarves stand clustered together near the edge of a great balcony rail, angrily facing off. It isn't immediately clear who the speaker is, but one man shoves another of off himself before yelling back.
"The Assembly decides the king, and until they speak on the matter—"
"The throne belongs to Bhelen!" Everything devolves into chaos, then, as whatever tenuous peace preventing the group from outright fighting fractures. Savreen can't see who hits first, but it hardly matters when fists are flying so. There's another yell, a response, this time, and a few city constables run over to try and break up the fight.
When both sides are pried apart, a man lies dead on the ground—Savreen recognizes him as the one who had spoken for the Assembly, who had tried to push the other dwarven man off and away. The constables try to re-establish order, but it's a difficult task when all can see the dead man, his nose broken and bloodied, his head battered and a single small wound in his side bleeding quickly out onto the stones.
"Maybe we should find the Assembly sooner rather than later, hmm?" Zevran suggests. Savreen still stares at the dead man.
"We should be careful," Ranjit says, and his voice is guarded. Anxious. That draws Savreen's attention, and she snaps back to their situation.
"The guards at the gate said to follow the causeway. This way." She can feel Ranjit's eyes on her as she leads them down, towards a set of winding stairs that bend and double back, leading up to another layer of the city, higher up in the interior of the mountain. The unspoken words in his gaze make her skin prickle. There can be no explanation other than that he disapproves—of her choices, of her leadership—and it frustrates her that he doesn't simply say so. It eats at her, making her feel too vulnerable.
Still, she can't erase the memory of his eyes when he looked at her in the forest, when he knew that the curse had infected her, too. When he knew that she hadn't told him, told anyone. It's ridiculous—her decision to tell or not tell the others of her wounds is just that, her decision. Why should he be upset by it? What reason does he have?
You've given him plenty of reason, a small voice whispers in the back of her head. Wouldn't you be upset, if the tables were turned? With a grimace, Savreen tries desperately not to think of Ranjit in her place: Ranjit infected by Swiftrunner; Ranjit pushing along through the pain in some misguided attempt to appear strong, to convince himself of his own strength; Ranjit nearly breathing his last in front of her. She fails, and she fails miserably. It only succeeds in making her feel worse. Perhaps she should have told him, told anyone, but it is too late, now, and there is little point in thinking about it all beyond scratching the itch of her own self-flagellation. There is a part of her that knows she should move on, move forward, think of other things. It is present, but it is frustrated and stymied, unable to do anything. She cannot stop thinking on the scab of her mistakes, cannot stop picking at it, reopening the gaping wound.
The stairs beneath Savreen's feet flatten out, leaving her at the landing of another great causeway. It runs forward in a long, gentle arc, but it's smaller, slightly cleaner, and definitely more expensive looking than the part of the city from which they've just come. The buildings are set in places with mosaics that just might contain gems; friezes sprawl across the fronts of homes with ornate geometric scenes; pillars reach skyward in glistening assortments of granite and ancient volcanic rock.
"Welcome to the Diamond Quarter, topsiders. May I assist you in any way?" The constable that draws Savreen's attention very nearly startles her out of her skin, and she jumps slightly, flinching away from the unexpected sound. "My apologies, I did not mean to cause alarm." The dwarf in front of her smiles apologetically, but Savreen feels her face heat with embarrassment, regardless.
"You have nothing to apologize for," she says, trying not to mutter or mumble. "We were looking for—" The sound of a loud belch interrupts her and, once more, Savreen jumps. Before she turns around to find the source of the sound, she notices intense displeasure on the face of the constable, whose full lips purse into an almost perfectly straight, flat line under his orangey beard.
"Helpin' the tourists, eh, Loilinar? Shame there's no one else around here that needs your help, eh?" Savreen turns, looking behind her for the speaker, and finds another dwarf, a man with pale skin and a shock of short, bright red hair above his braided beard.
"Oghren, now is not the time." There's warning in Loilinar's voice, quiet, but still very clearly there. Despite the fact that this Oghren is the one who, not two moments hence, interrupted Savreen, she feels that she's interrupted something else between the two men. Oghren's eyes, dark green and shadowed by lack of sleep, flash in anger. When he speaks, he does so around a rictus grin of a smile, a grimace of poorly feigned politeness.
"Well then, when is the time, eh? It'll be two years tomorrow! By all the holy sodding ancestors, how can you people just ignore that? Are you just too busy looking at your own reflection in your stupid little boots?" Loilinar, to his credit, doesn't rise to Oghren's bait. Instead, he sighs, and when he responds, it's with sadness and a sort of rote repetition—he's said this before, that much is clear—but also the frustration of a man at the end of his rope.
"Branka didn't go alone, Oghren. She took the whole house. Everybody but you. So just get over to Tapsters and run up my tab already. You know as well as I do that's how this always ends." Savreen's eyes track back and forth, between the two of them and then back over to the others, to Sten and Ranjit and Talvinder and Morrigan, all of whom stare back at her with variations on the same nonplussed expression.
"You think I'm afraid of some cub warrior who's barely off the teat? I—I'll—" Oghren's anger is getting the better of him, made obvious by the reddening of his cheeks and nose, but Loilinar will have none of it, and for that, Savreen is grateful. One street fight is enough to bear witness to in a day.
"You will do nothing, Oghren. You lift a weapon or attack a single citizen in Orzammar and you're stripped of your caste and exiled. Even you can't have forgotten that, I know that much." Maybe, Savreen thinks, they could just…walk away. Leave the two dwarven men to their conversation. No directions are worth this. She clears her throat, catching Alistair, Zevran, and Leliana's eyes as she does so. "Now get out of here before I call for backup." Luckily, though, there's no need to cut and run. Not yet, at least. Oghren throws up his hands, letting out a short bah of disapproval and frustration before he gets in the last word.
"Sod you and your sodding nug-licker wife." Then he's gone in a huff, barreling down the causeway. Savreen tries not to make eye contact with Loilinar for a moment, unsure whether to pretend if she's heard all of their conversation or not. Thankfully, he decides for her when he acknowledges the awkward situation.
"I'm sorry about that, topsiders. Oghren is…single-minded."
"There is no apology necessary," Savreen manages to say, for the second time. Loilinar smiles at her briefly, more out of awkwardness than anything else, and then he coughs once into his hand.
"I asked you if you needed any assistance finding your way in the Diamond Quarter today, but I do not think you were able to answer. Is there anything that I might help you with?"
"We seek an audience with the Assembly—can you tell us where we might find them?"
A hush falls over the little group as soon as the words leave Savreen's mouth, and she wonders for a moment if Loilinar has actually heard her. She opens her mouth again only for him to speak at last at that moment.
"You truly mean to speak with the Assembly? Now?" Uncertain, Savreen casts a glance over her shoulder. She's met with another confused look from Tali.
"The matter can only be seen to by them, yes," she answers, unsure how much to say of the nature of their need, or indeed of their identities. Loilinar sighs and shakes his head before he points up the causeway, further away from the stairs they'd ascended a few moments before.
"You will find them in the Assembly chambers, near the apex of the quarter. But you should be prepared to wait, and to wait a long time at that. The Assembly has been quarrelling amongst itself ever since King Endrin's death." There's a heavy, sinking sensation in Savreen's chest.
"The King is dead?"
This is not the news she had hoped to hear.