Brogan Dace was an absolute idiot, so having him as an opponent was something everyone wanted. Not that he hated him. Oh no, Kanak Boeka hated nobody. Least of all, people he could get rich off in a game of Wicked Grace. The game was going well. For him, anyway. Brogan Dace was a noble. They were rolling around in money. A little dent wouldn't hurt him.
"Have you heard?" began Darius Windgrip while dealing out a new hand. "At least two dozen have returned to Orzammar from the Helmi expedition. It was a mistake, giving that contract to House Helmi. Who knows how many have lost their lives?"
"My cousin was in her crew," confided Karna Vasu. "Nerav Helmi has the nerve, but I don't think she deserved the Kal'Hirol contract. What do you think, Brogan? House Dace wouldn't have squandered so many chances, eh?"
Brogan smiled and shook his head. "I think Nerav will be fine. Accidents happen. The Deep Roads are dangerous. There are so many lost thaigs that even if House Helmi and Dace don't compete, it'll take centuries to find everything."
"You're no fun," interjected Kanak, grinning wickedly while looking over his cards. "Stir the pot a little from time to time, Dace. You're too bloody nice!"
"Brogan over there is feeling magnanimous, probably. Didn't you hear? He's off to excavate Amgarrak thaig in a few days."
"No shit? Darion Olmech's crew?"
"It isn't a big deal." Though shamefaced, Brogan Dace nodded in confirmation. "I'm lucky I get to work with a scholar like Darion."
Kanak whistled. "Still. If your brother got the Kal'Hirol contract, you both could come back as heroes."
"Jerrik will find something or the other to investigate. My brother is very smart, you know."
"Mmm. If more people keep deserting the Helmi expedition, it might go to Jerrik anyway." Darius turned towards Kanak and pointed. "Say, weren't you a scout before you landed that cushy ass job in the excise department?"
"Really?" The idiot Dace turned towards him with a grin. "Were you involved with anything prominent?"
Grinning a winsome grin, Kanak raised his chin. "You know Aeducan thaig?"
"Yeah?"
"I helped reclaim it!"
While Brogan Dace looked awestruck, the others at the table looked at each other uneasily. Kanak noticed. It was warranted, too. Trian Aeducan, oldest brother of the current king Bhelen Aeducan, had been murdered by the middle brother, Duran, on the day the thaig was reclaimed.
"I was there for the whole sordid affair," Kanak continued. "I was with the murderer, you know, serving as his scout. It was a big honour for him, but it ended in tragedy when he killed his own brother in cold blood."
"Shame." Darius sighed. "Duran Aeducan patronised my shop once. Day of the Proving, that was. I remember him as a nice bloke, honestly."
"Yeah, well, palace politics turns nice blokes into evil bastards. Like grapes turning into raisins, eh?" Karna scowled as he drew a card and put it down immediately. "Balls. Anyway, I remember the event well. Weren't you one of the prime witnesses, Kanak?"
Kanak nodded."I was. But, since I wasn't a noble, they didn't take my word for it. After justice was delivered, Prince Bhelen made me a part of House Aeducan. Just in case anyone doubted my words ever again, you know?"
He could see that both Darius and Karna bristled at that statement. Fuck them. He'd come from Dust Town, clawed all the way up to where he was. Bhelen had gotten him a house, a job, and had promised him marriage into another noble family. After all, Kanak knew the real truth about that day. And he also knew how to keep himself safe from assassins, having been one himself.
He had the king of Orzammar by the balls. And it felt good.
"Must be nice," said Brogan Dace, smiling slightly. "I've never been friends with a king before…"
Kanak had to smile at that. Dace really was a nice guy. Too bad. Nice guys didn't last long in Orzammar.
"It ain't too bad," replied he as Darius took a card. No reaction. Must've been a shit card. Reaching for one himself, he continued, "Bhelen is smarter than Duran was, anyway. Orzammar's in a better place because of him. Duran… well. Doesn't matter now. As far as the Memories will tell, he didn't even exist."
"For killing Trian, he deserved to be hanged," spat Karna.
"Oh, it's fine." Grinning broadly, Kanak played the Angel of Death, ending the game in his favour. "Where he's gone, she's the only company he's got."
Suckers. While being lost in the story and politics, nobody had seen him substitute one of his cards for the Angel of Death he had hidden up his sleeve. Once he had collected all his winnings, Kanak bid his mates a fond farewell. He was a responsible gambler, and that came with knowing when to stop. Taking it all, well, that was the realm of kings and generals. They could have it, for all Kanak cared. As long as he got his due from the greedy bastard, whether by hook or crook, he was a happy guy.
Indeed, so happy was Kanak Boeka that he hummed a melody on his way after leaving The Dragon's Piss pub behind him. How could he not? The money pouch containing all the shiny pieces of gold made such pretty music as he walked. Almost as if it was asking him, ''What are you going to spend me on, hmm?'
Oh, Kanak had ideas. He had a couple of outstanding debts at the proving grounds. There was also that silverite blade that he was eyeing. Stabbed through stone like it was nothing! Most of all, there was a foxy new redhead he wanted to spend an hour with at the Pearl. Oh, the thought had been calling to him for weeks. Now, thanks to these idiots, he could finally answer the siren's song.
His course settled, Kanak turned homewards. If he was to grace the ladies of the Pearl with his presence, he would give them his best. A bath was in order. Just to wash off the stench of mediocrity he'd left the pub with. Being with the boys was nice and all, but one had to maintain one's class. He was a noble now.
While the house was a gift from Prince, well, King Bhelen now, Kanak wasn't fond of it. It wasn't in the posh part of town. How could ever bring anyone over? Useless. It was closer to the Commons than it was to the heart of the Diamond Quarter, where he belonged. What he hated most of all was this really narrow alley he had to pass through in order to go from the Commons directly to the back of his house. Every house in that line had such a system; a discreet way of allowing residents to either slip out or smuggle people in. Kanak hated that. It made him feel like a thief, sneaking into his own house. The alternative was a very long walk around the block to enter the house from the front. Too much walking. His time would be better spent pouring barrels of booze into Dust Town.
A rough hand clutching at his elbow brought him out of his reverie quickly. Whirling around, he found that it was an old dwarven woman. Her wrinkled face had prominent laugh lines, but despair marred those features heavily.
"Help me, please!" she began quickly. "My husband has died! My son, he will be drafted into the Legion if I can't–"
Ah, the old kiss and dip. Distract a mark with a pretty face or sentimental story while someone else came from the back and cut their purse strings. Cute. Sadly, Kanak had been alive for too long to fall for such a farce.
Ripping his arm away from her grasp, he spat at her feet and rumbled, "Sounds like a you problem."
"Please! I'm not lying!"
"Fuck off," Kanak suggested, returning to his oath. "What do I look like, a Paragon? Go cry to someone who gives a shit."
Who gave these people the right to beg this close to the Diamond Quarter? Everyone knew that to have problems like this sorted, one had to sit down with the Carta. The old bat should've gone down to Dust Town instead of bothering him with her worries.
And, from the look of things, his worries hadn't ended yet. The alley leading straight to his home was narrow–only a single dwarf could move through it at any point. So, the most annoying thing for him was meeting someone else at the other end: either they had to move or he had to move, and he was never going to move. Still annoyed about the old lady, when Kanak turned away and saw that there was another dwarf at the other end of the alley, his temper flared immediately.
"Hey, asshole!" He called. "Don't move any closer! This is my house and I'm returning, see? Back the fuck away and let me pass before you come barging in and create a problem for me."
To punctuate his point, Kanak raised his right hand and made a shooing motion. Despite the alley leading towards the Diamond Quarter, he knew that no noble would be coming down to the Commons using this alleyway. From the way the other guy was dressed, he could tell that this was no noble, either. A dirty cloak covered him head to toe. With the hood pulled up, there was no way to make out the face, either. Just some bastard, then, trying to scuttle away to the Commons after having nicked something from a noble house. Probably. Kanak had no problem with these people, usually, but today he took exception. Why? Because the fucker started walking towards him.
"What, you got a cock through your ears, motherfucker? Can't hear what I'm saying?" This stupid bastard. Did they even know who he was? "You even know who I am? Who you're interrupting? If I'm late because of you, I'll have you tied by your ankles to a cart and have you run along the Deep Roads! Now back the fuck off!"
No luck. The dwarf kept walking. Kanak clicked his tongue. Usually, threats like that worked wonders for him. Nobody dared to doubt the vengeance of the noble class, and he used that to full effect. This asshole didn't seem to care. A few bricks short of a wall, thus one. Unless…
Kanak faltered slightly. It wasn't unusual for Bhelen to send assassins after him. After all, the truth about the death of Trian Aeducan wasn't public knowledge, and the King liked to keep it that way. So far, Kanak had proven a slippery target. Was this another attempt to tie up all the loose ends? Probably. An ambush right behind his house? Classic Carta bullshit.
"I told you to stop, didn't I?" Kanak barked again, placing his left hand on the shortsword he carried at his hip. With his right, he took a smoke bomb out of his pocket. Effective things, smoke bombs. They'd gotten him out of pickles before, and today might be another instance of that. "You here for me, huh? What, did Bhelen send you? Ask you to bring my head to him, did he? Too fucking bad, I like my head the way it is!"
Grinning savagely, Kanak began running towards gis would-be assailant. His goal? Surprising the fucker into backing up. It made for a good show, at least. Carta folks weren't toughened soldiers. They were thugs. When the chips were down, they all wanted to walk away rather than die at the end of a pointy weapon. They expected fear. A show of force, usually sent them scarpering back to whatever whore they'd crawled out of.
This asshole did not budge. If anything, he lengthened his stride but did not break into a run.
"Mother–" Kanak swore under his breath. Knowing that the alley was too narrow to pull a sword,he instead rattled the bomb. The canisters inside released and he sloshed the vial around before hurling it at the ground between them. Immediately, smog occluded his vision. Knowing that the smoke was laced with poison gas, Kanak held his breath. He knew his speed, knew the relative speed and position of his assailant, and it wasn't difficult to calculate where the fuckface would be–four steps and they'd bump into each other.
So, Kanak took the first step. He landed on his right foot but instead of pushing forward, he leapt diagonally to the left. The extended sole of his left boot met the wall and, bending his knee, he jumped off. Travelling higher in an ar, Kanak emerged from the smoke and, as he sailed through the air, drew the sword. He took a deep breath as he twisted his body around like a corkscrew, dropping back into the smoke and landing on his feet behind the assassin. Darting forward, he stabbed the guy in the back, pushing his blade into his spine. He'd taken care of countless assassins like this. Not even a Crow had been able to take him in Orzammar. This guy? Chump change. And even if it turned out that it wasn't an assassin, just some dumbfuck who had wanted to act tough, well, they should've listened to him at the get go.
Thinking about how his shirt would be ruined due to the blood splatter, Kanak shook his head. He expected his blade to slip beside the spinal column, between the ribs, and puncture a lung or a kidney. If he was lucky, he would get the heart. He expected to feel the resistance of bone, the tightness of muscle, and the warmth of blood. He expected to feel the feedback of his words hitting home and making an impact. He expected to feel the absence of a heartbeat, dying out while in his grip.
He did not expect to hear a dull clink and feel his sword stop right in its tracks as if it'd hit a stone wall. Steel was good against many things, but stone? No luck. Had he stabbed the wall by mistake? He wasn't some fresh recruit, but mistakes happened. The guy could've sped up or slowed down as soon as he saw smoke. Hell, he could've landed weird, facing the wall, and murdered a brick! Being unable to see really made things difficult that way.
No matter. Kanak pulled back and thrusted his sword hand out again, aiming three quick jabs outwards at varying heights: low, high, middle. He should've skewered something or the other. Probability was on his side. However, this time too the blade met with a dull clank the first two times. It was almost like hitting a shield. A heavily reinforced shield. But Kanak knew that his opponent wasn't wearing a shield. Even if he carried one under his cloak, he would've seen an outline. It wasn't a shield. Though he was guessing the first two times, the third jab was what gave him certainty.
He had aimed at the middle with his final strike. At about stomach height for most dwarves. Usually, he would get some guts and lungs. Accompanied by the agonised screaming of the soon-to-depart enemy. Now, the only sound he heard was that of his steel sword shattering like a glass mirror.
No shield could do that.
With further thought, he might have been able to make more headway into this mystery, but hard knuckles meeting his nose stopped all other thoughts in their tracks. Had it not been for the smoke, he would have seen the punch coming, but now his only recourse was to turtle up. Kanak brought his hands up defensively, covering his head and face, but he could tell that his nose was broken. His eyes teared up, he tasted his blood in his mouth, but he kept his lips pressed together. It was impossible to breathe with his nostrils dripping blood, but to open his mouth was to invite poison smoke into his system, so he held his breath and waited for the fog to lift.
The next punch decimated that plan.
It was like the swing of a sledgehammer. Hard knuckles, fuelled by strong muscles, driven into his side, catching his liver and floating ribs. Kanak croaked. Raising his hands had exposed his body, and his opponent had stepped in for a killer blow. He felt his hands fall down to his sides, felt his body rise to his toes, but he refused to open his mouth. His will to not do one thing, one simple act, paid off, because the next punch would have ended it.
It was an uppercut, delivered within a fraction of a second from the liver shot, with the same hand, too. Had his mouth been open, the blow would have shut him up and given him lockjaw. Kanak was not in a place to feel pain anymore. His body was reeling, looking forward to falling after the liver shot, but the uppercut had woken him up slightly. Enough to think. Whoever this guy was, he was good. He had taken advantage of the smoke to close the distance and begin an in-fighting masterclass. But the smoke was still there. If he was holding his breath, then the other guy was doing the same thing.
And without exhaling, one could only do so many things.
There had been three punches so far. A straight right, a round left hook to his liver, and an uppercut with the same hand. Which meant that the killshot was coming. Another right. And it would be coming for his face: either temple, jaw, or chin. He'd already been hit on the chin. Plus, this guy was close. He wasn't darting in and out simply because there was no space. They were locked in position inside a narrow alley, with retreat or victory being the only options.
So, Kanak folded his knees and lowered himself. He felt the air above him get sliced just as he did so and grinned. Gotcha, bitch. With his body coiled like a spring, he leapt forward and drove his shoulder into the man's gut, forcing the air out of his lungs. He would have to breathe now. Take in all the remaining dregs of the gas.
He did not expect the knee. It hit him like a piston in the chest as soon as he'd speared the guy, the kneecap pushing his sternum back towards his spine. He would have screamed, but did not got the time. Two pointed elbows dropped like bombs on the back of his neck and shoulders. One-two. The combination left him gasping. Burning smoke, which he had been trying desperately to avoid, streamed into his lungs. Doubled over and fighting off a coughing frenzy, Kanak felt his head go dizzy. Whatever this asshole wanted, he hoped that he would do it already. Staying conscious was more troublesome by the second.
To that end, the guy sure helped him along. As Kanak stood on wobbly legs, bent at the waist, and holding his chest, he felt a hand catch the left side of his face. The hand was calloused. Fingers splayed. Grip like a deadman. It wasn't a slap, no. The guy grabbed his face and dashed the other side against the wall. Rattled from the impact, Kanak fell to his knees. However, his attacker didn't relent. Again, he felt the unyielding stone squash his temple, cheek, and jaw. Again, he heard the ballad of the Stone in his ear. His solace lay in the fact that he passed out momentarily from the impact, but woke up seconds later, face down on the floor.
"Get up," came a rumble from over him, and he felt compelled to do as told. Placing his palms on the ground, Kanak pushed himself up, groaning all the way. He might die, but he wouldn't pass in disgrace. Without fighting. "Good. Get up properly."
"Fuck, man." Spitting blood out, the dwarf pulled his knees up under him and pushed himself back, falling into a sitting position on his ankles. His arms were limp, his legs numb, and his head completely disoriented. "Tell me… tell me why, at least."
People liked talking. From the way this guy had taken him down but kept him alive, it was probably to deliver a message. And if he could get him talking, there might still be a chance. He kept a knife in either boot, after all.
"Since when do you Carta clowns give a shot about reasons?"
Kanak kept his hands hanging on either side of him. As limp as he could make them look. His fingertips grazed his ankles, grazed the handle of the shivs he kept stashed. He chuckled hoarsely. "Didn't Bhelen tell you?"
By then, the smoke had cleared enough for him to see. The poison in the boom caused the throat to close up, the lungs to drown in phlegm. Not lethal, but most definitely debilitating for an hour or so. He couldn't breathe through his nose, and his throat was starting to itch badly. A coughing fit was coming. It would rattle his ribs. Having used it on many people, Kanak knew the effects. He always liked how effective they were. Just never liked that he was on the receiving end of it now.
"What?"
The guy was wearing some kind of mask. Metal. Just… not fully metal. The eyes were glass of some kind. Lenses. And there were veins of lyrium baked into it. Kanak knew lyrium. What infusing lyrium did to a mask, he didn't know, but he figured he'd find out when he took it to be sold.
"I ain't no Carta trash!"
Disguised by his loud proclamation, Kanak used the last of his strength to slip the shivs out and leap at the dwarf before him. The mask was armoured, so he didn't aim for that. Having thrown away his cloak, he had laid bare the rest of his body. Open season. This was his last gambit. After this burst of action, he would have no more openings before the gas took him. What did he have to lose? As the blades neared the dwarf, Kanak hoped that his consciousness would hold out just a little bit longer. Just long enough to see this fucker bleed. To see him gutted like a nug.
The shivs never got that far.
Not because Kanak collapsed before seeing the attack through. Not because the dwarf lifted a finger in defence. No, it was with wide eyes that Kanak witnessed his shivs snap in two upon colliding with an invisible shield seemingly surrounding the dwarf. Invisible until something struck it. Then It… shimmered. A magical shield? Had to be. But… dwarves couldn't use magic. They were disconnected from the Fade! There had never, ever been a Dwarven mage! What fresh hell was this?
Swallowing the blood pooling in his mouth, Kanak dropped the useless handles he had clutched in his palms, the cloud of defeat staved off by the shock of disbelief. His vision began to waver. No matter how much he tried to focus, he couldn't catch the features of his attacker when he took off his mask. Red hair. Red beard. Like every other dwarf. But the eyes… the eyes he would remember. If he ever woke up again.
"I guess Bhelen didn't tell you, either."
Kanak was a thug. A liar, a cheat, a thief. He had rubbed shoulders with the worst of Dwarven society. He wasn't afraid of the Carta or even the King of Orzammar because he knew how to use people. However, the one thing that terrified him were those people who came down here to die. Those things that clawed out of the abyss to spread their Blight upon the world. Kanak, in his life, had known many Grey Wardens who had come to Orzammar to answer their Calling. He respected them. Feared them, too, because he couldn't control them. Looking at this dwarf, he didn't know why he was reminded of the gaze of a Warden… but it wasn't just that.
"What…" he croaked. "What are you?"
This dwarf… his gaze was frighteningly like that of a Warden's prime prey. Revolting. Hypnotic.
"Pure," came his answer. Then a thunderclap sounded and Kanak knew no more.
Duran Aeducan poured himself a drink. It had been a long time since he'd imbibed a drink in Orzammar. The beer was good. So good, in fact, that he finished the entire pint in one go. Helping himself to Kanak Boeka's liquor cabinet had been a good decision, and he congratulated himself by pouring himself another pint. Home invasion was a new crime to him, but he'd done it well. Gone in through the back door. Yes, the broken hinges would have to be replaced or repaired, but the man of the house would hardly mind.
How could he? The dwarf was unconscious, lashed to a chair with his chin lolling against his chest. Duran had hit him hard, but not too hard. Killing him in the alley would have been pointless. There were better uses for people like him.
Taking a sip from the tankard, Duran walked across the kitchen towards his prey. Along the way, he latched onto a chair. He dragged it across the stone floor and set it down across from Kanak. It was tragic. He had thought that beating this bastard up would make him feel good. As he drank, Duran took a good look at the man. More than a year he'd had to think about this moment, to think about what he would do to the liars who had cost him not just his brother, but his father, his throne, and his very life. Even noticing that he drew breath still burned his insides worse than the beer.
Perhaps he would feel better if he had used more violence? Not a bad idea.
So, Duran set the drink down on the stone floor beside him, drew a knife from his table, and stabbed it right into Kanak's leg, a little over his knee. As expected, he woke up screaming. Had his shins not been tied to the chair legs, Duran was sure he would have kicked his tankard over.
"You're finally awake,'' he greeted while digging his knife into his flesh, cutting around the patella in an effort to pop the kneecap out. "I was beginning to think I'd hit you too hard."
"What in the sake of fuckfaced Andraste are you doing?!" cried Kanak from the pain, his screech almost painful to the ear.
Duran shrugged. "What does it look like? Hurting you. Tell me." He looked up from his work to make eye contact. "Do you feel hurt yet? No? Maybe if I do this…"
Abandoning the knife, Duran grasped the exposed bone of Kanak's kneecap with his finger, applying just enough strength to make it seem like he was twisting the lid off a jar. The way Kanak howled and screamed, Duran wondered whether it was an act. If it was, it was rather good. Made for the stage, this one.
"Curious thing about houses in the Diamond Quarter," explained Duran, releasing the kneecap in favour of his tankard. "The stone is so thick that people outside can't hear what's going on inside and vice versa. However, the palace is made so that if you whisper to someone in one corridor, the stonework carries the sound all the way across the palace. Anyone can listen in by pressing their ear to the stone." Duran took a sip and raised his tankard in salute. "To Dwarven craftsmanship."
So saying, he drank. Oaths and curses and shrieks of all manner were his accompaniment to the task. The chair rattled as the bastard pulled against his restraints, the legs leaving the floor and thudding back down. No good. While not a sailor, Duran had, in years past, access to the finest brothels. The ladies there could work wonders with rope. Bondage, to them, was an art.
For him, only the means to an end.
"Now." He set his drink down and sat straight. Kanak Boeka still hadn't stopped screaming. "Let me answer your primary questions first. No, nobody paid me to kill you. I'm doing that of my own free will. Yes, I am going to kill you. As for why, well, you clearly don't recognise me, so allow me to remind you."
Kanak Boeka, scum though he was, was also an opportunistic cockroach. He quietened down as soon as words were in the picture. However, he didn't react when Duran told him he would die. Perhaps the words hadn't hit home yet. Worse yet, the deluded asshole probably thought he could get out of it somehow. A thought Duran found amusing, if anything.
"I don't know how long ago it was, but during the reclamation of Aeducan thaig, you served as my scout. We found the corpses of my elder brother, Trian, and when asked about what had happened, you told the assembly, including my father, then King Endrin Aeducan, that I had slain them."
To his credit, Kanak had the decency to gulp. "You!"
"Indeed." Placing his elbows on his thighs, Duran leant forward, noting how recognition coincided with resignation in the man. His shoulders sagged and he chuckled darkly, shaking his head. "That lie, that is what undid my fate. I did not know you. We had never met. Yet… you lied about me, and others took advantage of that. I am not angry at you, Kanak Boeka. Which is why I'll make sure you don't suffer much before dying, but I have two questions for you."
The dwarven man groaned. Whether from the pain or from the hopelessness of his situation, it was difficult to tell.
"You won't let me go, will you?" he asked.
Duran shook his head. "No."
"Then why should I tell you anything?"
"You don't have to. I will work down my list and get to know everything eventually. I thought that given your fate, you might as well talk because why not?"
"Heh. A list, huh? What, you're gonna kill Bhelen?"
"First Frandlin Ivo. Then Bhelen."
Perhaps the conviction in his tone had caught Kanak by surprise, for he gaped. "What."
"I am going to kill Bhelen," replied Duran calmly, picking the knife up again. "I am going to kill everyone who conspired against me, Kanak Boeka. Titles and money and power, nothing matters. Now." He pressed the tip of the knife to his prisoner's still-good knee. "Do you want to talk, or shall I skin your other knee first?"
Kanak stopped struggling against his ropes. "You're supposed to be dead. Your name was struck from the Memories. What can you hope to achieve by doing this?"
"I was supposed to be the one asking questions." Duran stabbed the knife hilt-deep into his thigh, then began to pull it down towards his knee. Slowly. As the blade cut through skin, as blood came out in small gushes with every inch the knife opened up, Kanak remembered to use his mouth for its intended purpose.
Screaming.
"Firstly, I want to know how much money Bhelen paid you." Duran extracted the blade and shook the blood off it, painting the wall crimson from the action, before wiping it on a dishcloth. "I'm assuming it was enough to buy you a house like this."
"You shit-faced son of a whore!" howled Kanak in response, tears and snot flowing down his face. "Why does that matter?"
"Because I need to know how much money Bhelen thought my life was worth. How much money you thought my life was worth."
"Five…" Kanak spat at the floor. "Five thousand gold."
"Princely."
"I was hired… hired to keep you alive through the… the dungeon…" His breath was coming in pants now. After all that blood loss, he was no doubt feeling light-headed. "And if… if you didn't attack Trian… I was… I was paid to do that. Start the brawl."
"And you did do that. Because I didn't start a fight with Trian. Did you poison your blade?"
Kanak nodded. "Yes. Lotus extract. From the surface."
"At least he died quickly." Duran shook his head. Five thousand gold. And this man was unimportant. How much had Bhelen paid everyone else? The Ivo scion? The Shaperate? The Great Houses? Everyone had acted with uncanny swiftness to Trian's death, to accuse him. Was the throne really worth that much? "All right, Kanak Boeka. Last question. After that, you die. Are you ready?"
Kanak spat at him this time. Duran hummed.
"Fair enough. Tell me, do you have any relatives who need looking after?"
"What?"
"If you are the only breadwinner your family has, they will be in a jam after your death." So saying, Duran drew a curved dagger from his belt. There was a hoop at the end of the grip, through which he fed his eight index, holding it in a reverse grip. "I will take care of them financially. You did me wrong for money. For you it was a business transaction. And I'm now giving you the option of insurance. If you ask that of me, I shall make sure that nobody in your family goes hungry."
He had more to say. Duran didn't want this man's family to suffer needlessly, to have a sister or wife become a noble hunter. Or to put themselves at the mercy of the Legion of the Dead. No, he wanted to do right by them. But Kanak interrupted him by laughing out loud.
"What do you even have, huh?" he taunted through the pain. "You've been stripped of your name, your legacy. You're worse than the casteless. You have no record of existence. What money will you use to support anyone, O great prince?" He spat at his feet once more. "I don't need you to take care of anyone. If anything, take care of your own damn self. I have nobody that needs the protection of someone who has nothing. Besides…" Kanak Boeka leant forward despite the rope biting into him. "Besides… Bhelen made me a part of House Aeducan. Even if I had people, I wouldn't have them take charity from my killer."
"Bhelen made you part of the Aeducan house, did he?"
Of course, as king, Bhelen could do whatever he wanted. Had he been the only heir to the Aeducan name, he could have done with it what he pleased. But he wasn't. He wasn't the only one. Duran still lived. Still drew breath. And for a snake like this to be inducted into his house instead of someone honourable like Gorim? That was an insult. That, he could not forgive.
"Damn fucking right." Kanak grinned. "He had no choice. Either make me a noble, get me a noble wife, or the entire city learns about the truth."
"You held that over his head."
"I did."
"You really don't know how to make friends, do you?"
"I don't need a friend who can't help me get higher in life."
Duran shook his head. Then he punched Kanak right in the throat. His knuckles crushed the man's voice box. He felt them crunch. There was nothing Kanak could do, either. It was a sharp, short jab. Just enough power to do what it needed to do and nothing more.
"I'd say you've climbed high enough," Duran replied and rose from his chair. As Kanak choked and coughed, Duran slipped his left hand into his captive's mouth, pinched onto his tongue, and pulled it out of his mouth. "You've used this tongue of yours an awful lot. And not for the right purposes. Lying about royalty is a capital offence. And I'm here to make sure that vengeance is served in the right way."
As Kanak watched, Duran curled the sharp, curved edge of the dagger under his tongue. His throat was bulging, expanding. Soon, he would be unable to breathe. It wouldn't take long.
"So, let us be rid of this foul implement of trickery."
A flick of the wrist. That's all it took Duran to snip the traitor's tongue out of his mouth. Bound and helpless, Kanak could do nothing. The only way for him to communicate his panic was through the bulging of his eyes, and Duran, out of courtesy, sat back down across from him and watched the first person on his list choke to death. Only when Kanak Boeka soiled himself post-mortem did he get up and make his way to the kitchen.
Duran washed his dagger, his hands, his face. He also washed the traitor's tongue. It wasn't a valuable item or anything, but it was a symbol. It would serve as a reminder to the one who came next that fate was quickly catching up to those that had taken his life from him. After thoroughly washing the tongue, he put it away in a leather pouch and hung it on his belt. The kitchen did not have a mirror, but he wondered about the look on his face. Wearing his victim's blood, he wondered how he looked. He wondered whether it was a look he would like. He wondered why he cared.
The die was cast. The moves, made. He had given an oath, and he was bound by tradition to keep his word. More than that, he owed it to himself. He owed it to his dead brother, his dead father, and the entire family of Pyral Harrowmeont who had been slaughtered for being political rivals to Bhelen.
It wouldn't be easy, but he was going to see it through. Heaving a sigh, Duran turned away and walked past the dead body of the scout who had spewed the first lie that day. Three more. Three more, and he was done. Three more, and he would be free. To do what, he didn't know.
Pulling his hood over his face, Duran made his way out of the back of the house and made his way towards Dust Town, wondering how Nerav Helmi would react if she knew what he was up to.
In short, Nerav was pissed. There had been many misgivings about this journey of hers, but she'd gotten good results. However, after sending a letter to Bhelen for reinforcements, the response she had gotten was a small army and another expert to take her place.
"If I need reinforcements, it's because I need more men to hold this place," she muttered darkly while forcefully stuffing her belongings into her knapsack. "It doesn't mean that I need help doing my fucking job, your Assness!"
Bhelen knew she didn't care for him. Knew that could be a problem. The Shaperate knew that she had been the one to reclaim Kal'Hirol. If she did any more, she would get dangerously close to Paragon territory. He didn't want that to happen, so of course he waylaid her plans. That bastard. Oh, how she wanted to see his head roll. Him, along with his crowd of sycophants.
Scout Gallra, who shared her frustrations about this intrusion in their routine, occupied a stool at one corner of the tent. "Madam Commander, you aren't thinking of leaving and going back to Orzammar, are you?"
"Absolutely not."
"Good. Because you need to stay here and stand your ground. The excavations are going smoothly and the scholars have been taking records of everything they find here. They need you here, you know. We all know it wouldn't be fair to just be sent back."
Nerav sighed and looked at him. "Look, dwarves aren't mages. We're resistant to lyrium, but that's it. I know that I'm ill-equipped to find all the secrets buried here. Had I had more time, I might've but…" She shrugged. "They sent someone who knows. That's great. But that also means I'm no longer needed. As far as Bhelen is concerned, I've reclaimed the place. So… my job is done."
Gallra's jaw worked. "You can't be serious."
"I am. I'm packed up. And if you want to come with me, you should pack up, too."
"Pack up for where? Orzammar?" Glarra sounded more like a disappointed father than a scout at that moment. "My pride won't allow it. You can go if you want."
"No. Not Orzammar."
"...what."
Nerav grinned at his confusion and shook her head. "Kal-Sharok."