Vin chewed her cheek as she examined the address on her list for the eighth time. 'Number 10 Tree Lane' was, as far as information went, utterly futile. The Alienage locals had no need for addresses, and any street signs the humans put up there were stolen or defaced into illegibility within a day.
Of course, everyone with half a brain knew the real reason the Templars insisted on using the stupid bloody things was not, as they promised, to help visitors find their way through the winding thoroughfares, but rather to stamp out the last of the traditional elven navigation customs. Vin couldn't help but nurse a sneaking suspicion that seeing her struggle like this was an aphrodisiac for the Templars as well, though.
A dilapidated rowhouse became Vin's backrest as she paused to rack her brains and admonish herself. A whole year as Denerim's fire warden, with regular visits to the Alienage throughout. She should have known the place like the back of her hand now.
I'd remember the face, but what's the bloody name?
"Lookin' for something, Warden?"
A child with firehair and a splitmouthed grin– whose house she remembered inspecting for safety hazards last month– sidled up to her. They jabbed a thumb into their chest, big kid on home turf with the upper hand and some of the arm as well. "I can help you find wherever you're lookin' for. Satisfaction guaranteed."
Whenever she had the money, Vin gave a coin to any child who offered and declined with thanks. But the sun was already slinking off, and the Templars were generous with the whip for the mages who reported back late.
"I could use some help," Vin said reluctantly. She extracted her last coin and handed it over. "Do you know where Tree Lane is? Number ten?"
The child gaped at the money. "A whole silver," they breathed. They grabbed Vin's hand and burst into a run, expertly weaving them both through the mud and homebound masses until they reached a dingy alleyway.
"This is Tree Lane," they declared in front of the dismal stretch. "But I dunno my numbers very well yet."
Vin smiled and shook her head. "Not to worry, I don't think I'll be looking for long. Thank you for your help. How's your mother, then, hmm?"
"She's 'live. She had the baby. We named her Sulani."
"Mmm! Congratulations! You must be very proud. She'll be very lucky with a clever sibling like you looking out for her. I have to get to work now, but say hello to your mother for me, all right?" She touched a hand over her heart in polite goodbye. "Thank you for helping me."
With a wave from the hand not clutching the riches, the child was away, and Vin was left to guess her way to house number ten.
She'd been here before, no doubt about it, though with the way all Fereldan houses looked the bloody same, the nodoubtaboutits could have come on any road in Denerim. But even if her navigational instincts weren't breathing unassisted, they were still taking in air, and had led her to a smallish inn at the end of the road.
Inside, the desk at the front of the establishment was unoccupied. After a round of fruitless hallooing, Vin shrugged and went further in.
The damp tang of aged cobwebs and creeping mould hung in the air by the half-buckled staircase, evoking a groan and the memories of three prior, failed visits. Always to follow up on the same room-- the only one in the entire building she had never been able to get in to inspect.
She gulped. That did explain why the Templar who thrust her clipboard at her early that morning had looked even more ominous than usual.
Vin climbed the staircase and followed the corridor to the very end, where the one bloody room she needed was– of course– closed. She clucked her tongue irritably and gave the door a firm knock.
§
Zevran had paused in cleaning his belt long before the knocking started. The house was alive, if only out of spite, and every decrepit bone of it was ready with a complaint. While boots were still pressing groans out of the floorboards thirty paces away, the pommel of his restless knife dug into his hand.
Not a Crow. No guild member would slop about like a civilian, intentionally or unintentionally. The shame of it!
Ah, but then Zevran was a deserter, and thus unworthy of a proper assassination. A knife to the gut delivered by a leadfoot who bashed the gizzards out of doors would be well deserved.
Another knock, and a warm, smoky voice announced itself as the Fire Warden.
Hah. Smoky.
By the time a third round of knocking came, he was reluctantly making his way to the door-- and apparently too distracted to notice the oiled cloth on the floor that was slipping his foot out from underneath him--
§
Vin felt the thud more than she heard it. The floorboards had lifted like tongues under her feet, only to settle back down into place before she could be swallowed up.
She knocked a fourth time.
"I heard that noise in there," Vin called through the tiny crack in the doorframe.
Silence.
"Oh, Maker's--" she rapped the door jamb again. "Come on, please don't be like this. This is the fourth time I've tried to do a fire safety inspection and the person inside's pretended to be dead or comatose."
When she made to knock again, the door opened enough to reveal a single, amber eye glaring out at her.
She scoffed. "Well, that's a start, at least."
§
Zevran quirked a brow at the tousle-haired human staring at him expectantly. She looked the part of the Fire Warden in those red, singe-sleeved robes. Rust-coloured hair clipped short, presumably so it couldn't tempt an errant flame, ruddy complexion from overexposure to the heat…
But then she folded her arms and revealed a constellation of scars that began on her hands and went who-knew-how-high. That didn't seem right. The mages had spells for flawless healing, did they not? Certainly the higher-up Crows, once they reached a certain status, suddenly began to look like they had never been so much as caught up in a barfight.
Hmm.
He smiled smoothly, his unseen hand spinning the dagger it held. "Are you quite sure you are the Fire Warden?"
The human's eyes fell into a squint. "You think I'd dress like this to go door-to-door selling copies of the Chant of Light, do you?"
§
Vin caught a flash of steel and had just enough time to move back before the blade of a dagger jutted out of the wooden jamb like a badly-hammered nail.
She tipped her head back and let out a groan that made her throat rattle. "Listen, ser. You're the third person who's threatened me with a knife today and I'll tell you now, I'm not afraid of it. Someone's going to turn my arse into a pincushion before day's end. If I don't get your place seen to, it'll be the Templars with their greatswords. And apparently," she gestured at the dagger wedged into the doorframe, "if I do, it'll be you with this fruit knife. Frankly, I'd rather die doing the right thing, which is making sure your good self doesn't burn the Alienage down. Please, please, just let me do my bloody job."
§
She hadn't responded quickly enough to the knife to be a Crow. It was either that, or she was so good at feigning ineptitude that the Crows had sent one of their best. The latter rang as close to a compliment as damn it was to swearing, and if it had been the former… well, Zevran wasn't so proud that he couldn't live another day escaping the Crows' notice.
He extracted the knife and opened the door, waving the Fire Warden in with a flourish.
"Then please, my dear, inspect away. Who am I to stop your good works?"
She raised an eyebrow at him. "I don't know who you are, but you've stopped my good works three times already." She shrugged and stepped inside. "Still, fourth time's a charm, so they say."
"Hmm? I thought it was the third time that was the charm."
The Fire Warden snorted. "The Fereldans aren't lucky enough to get things by the third go. Even the fourth time is ambitious– Andraste's smalls!"
§
Vin jogged past the man to the oil lamp burning brightly on the wall above his bedside table.
"Who lit this?" she demanded.
He shrugged. "I have no idea. It was lit when I arrived, and I simply turn it down during the day to save on having to re-light it."
Vin shook her head irritably. "This is a mage flame. See how white it is compared to the usual orange ones? Doesn't belong in a lamp like this– ack! And with ceilings this low, too!" With a wave of her hand, the flame was extinguished, and soft, disapproving clucks issued from behind her.
She turned around and raised a brow at the man, who was fixing her with a reproachful look. "Tut-tut all you want. Mage fire burns at almost twice the heat of regular fire. Even if you turn it down, it's still hot enough to soften glass and," she waved a hand at the sagging patch of ceiling over the lamp, "warp the wood. If it had gotten any closer it could have started to combust and cook you like a steak!"
§
There was remarkably little to say as the mage turned her back to Zevran and proceeded to caress the airspace above the lamp. Not that much needed to be said on his part, really; she was talking enough for the both of them.
"I hate to think what might have happened if you hadn't come to the door this time around," she declared. "That landlord of yours! Not good enough at all. Moments like these almost make me glad I've got this bloody job…"
A chill seeped into the room as she, while still harping on about the ways he might have been burnt to death, plastered a handful of snowflakes onto the sagging beams. With another sweeping motion, the wood tightened back into straightness.
Zevran grumbled at the cold currents licking his skin into gooseflesh. Damning her visit under his breath, he strode over to the door, took his cloak off the hook, and swaddled himself in it as much as he dared in front of a stranger.
"I heard those remarks, you rude bugger."
"I do not care for the cold," Zevran replied haughtily. "Particularly when I am caught on a night without anyone to help me warm my bed." He chuckled without a hint of mirth. "Unless, of course, you might be interested?"
The Warden turned around and gave him a withering look. "Now there's an idea! Dive into bed with the feller who knifed the doorframe when I asked to come in and fix up his quarters."
Zevran smirked. "The knifing was a mere formality, my dear, I assure you."
"Formality? Hah! You must be a hit at parties."
"My word, yes! I can dance the legs off a chair, play six different card games, and my mandolin serenades have brought crowds to tears!"
Her heart didn't sound in it as she scoffed at him. "I can't imagine how you persuaded anyone to stay in your company if your introductions start with the business end of a knife. Foreign custom, is it?"
Zevran waggled his brows at her. "You'd be surprised how often visits start this way in Antiva." He sighed with more nostalgia than he was ready to acknowledge. "Ah, my bloody, beloved homeland. A knife in every hand, and pair dancing on every street corner… you Fereldans don't know what you're missing, truly."
The mage groaned. "Is my accent really that bad, or do you just have the gift of saying the wrong thing at every opportunity?" She stood up and jabbed a thumb into her chest. "I'm a Kirkwaller. And if I hear you say that Free Marchers and Fereldans are much of a muchness, I'll set your armpit hair on fire."
"Ooh!" Zevran cackled delightedly. "Is that a threat, dear lady, or an offer?"
She raised an eyebrow. "You're not that desperate to keep warm, are you? Anyway, that's the lighting done. I'll be taking a look at the fireplace now, assuming you don't skin me and repurpose my ribs as a xylophone first." She got to her feet and eyed him beadily.
He bowed with as much flair as his chilled body would allow. "I wouldn't dream of it."
"Huh. Wouldn't you? Maybe you should. The Templars will tell you it makes for great entertainment."
Zevran gave a low chuckle. "I know the type. No, if I must dream of you, let it be of me feeding you fresh berries and delighting you with tales of debauchery and intrigue!"
The mage burst out with a laugh that was jagged enough to cut the throat on the way up.
"And what would a nice bloke like yourself know of debauchery and intrigue, eh?"
"I thought you'd never ask–!"
"Save it for later," she held up a hand. "I've got a flue to inspect, and if your lamp was anything to go by, I'll want your full concentration as I rabbit on about its issues. Oh, stop giving me that ridiculous sad face. It didn't work for Mr. Wiggums, and it won't work for you either."
Without clarifying who precisely Mr Wiggums was, the Fire Warden strode over to the fireplace. Zevran's miserable squeak went ignored as she extinguished the fire with a wave of her hand (and, most unfortunately, summoned more ice in so doing). She peered up into the flue.
"Blessed fuckbuttons," she uttered. "I shouldn't even be surprised, really, but here we are."
She turned around and shook her head at him.
He feigned nonchalance. "I take it the hearth is not to your liking?"
"Well, I do like it when people aren't dying unnecessarily," she returned crisply, "and if I were the suspicious type, I'd have said someone was trying to kill you by serious neglect."
Zevran's belly lurched, and he prayed he concealed it sufficiently with a laugh.
"That chimney," she continued, "is packed with tar and soot and filth, which burn hot enough to start a fire in the chimney and potentially take out the entire building."
He sighed. "Oh, good. I don't suppose there is anything we can do for it tonight? I would be happy to help if an assistant is called for."
The mage hummed. "Not really, I'm afraid. Even with two Fire Wardens, all that stuff in there will take a while to clear out, and I might have to repair the chimney while I'm at it. Could be a solid day's work, all told." She glanced out the window. "And I'm meant to be reporting back to the Chantry by nightfall, so I need to get going before the Templars actually do make a musical instrument out of my skeleton."
That didn't sound especially plausible, but Zevran nodded all the same. "Ah well, not much to do, then. In which case, I must simply pine in the cold until your lovely self returns to rescue me." An image flashed in his mind of the Fire Warden bursting in and finding him trapped in a block of ice.
"'Fraid you're correct there, fellow denizen," she said heavily. "Tomorrow's looking like a good day for it, though. I'll see if the Templars let me swap some things around so I have enough time to sort you out, all right?" She wagged a finger. "No fire until I get back, though."
He chewed his lip. "... No light, either?"
"Oh, right!" She gently smacked her forehead. "Knew I was forgetting something. I can replace the oil lamp tomorrow with something a bit more modern, but if you want light 'til then, you'll need to use normal fire."
The mage plunged a hand– closer to a whole arm, actually; how deep did those pockets go?-- and pulled out a taper.
"Give me a minute," she said. "My lighter is out of fluid and the Templars won't give me any more for the rest of the week. I'll just get it from the lamp in the hallway…"
She darted out of the room and returned with a half-waddle sort of gait, her hand up to shield the tiny flame she was carrying.
"If you want to sing the birthday song," she said over her shoulder, "I won't judge you."
Zevran kept his mouth shut. Did Fereldans really sing a particular birthday song, or was she playing with him? What did that have to do with tapers?
"... No?" she said after a moment. "Huh, tough crowd. Now if I can just get it lit without burning my fing– ah, there we go!"
She blew the taper out and smiled at him, gesturing with a flourish at the lamp. "Your light, m'lord. Now, I'd better get out of here before the Templars turn my arse into a dartboard."
He cleared his throat and pulled the cloak around him a little tighter. "Of course. I… don't suppose you have any advice on how to keep this room warm overnight?"
The warden chewed her lip. "Not really, no. I can get a little warm air in here, but this whole place is a heat sink. Nothing I summon will last long until someone makes it a little more airtight." She shrugged half-heartedly. "On the bright side, though, it's probably how your room hasn't killed you yet. I'd say focus on keeping yourself warm. Wear all your warmest clothes, eat a hot meal, and keep yourself off the floor and away from the windows. I'll come again soon's I can to fix up the fireplace, all right?"
Zevran's heart sank. Excessive heat was easy enough to deal with- a dip in the ocean, a wet shirt in a breeze, a bowl of cold custard if funds allowed, all cooled a body off quickly. This cold, though, this pervasive, damp freezing weather that chilled right down to the bone, was a challenge Antiva City had never presented. And certainly, it wasn't a climate that encouraged the sale of the warm clothes this person was talking about, because he didn't have them.
"I… don't suppose I could light a small fire in the middle of the room, could I?"
She raised an eyebrow. "I just finished making sure you don't die from some horrible fire accident. You take a guess and tell me what you think my answer's going to be."
"Mmm! Hopefully you will make a remark about my obvious beauty and suggest we climb into bed to keep each other warm." He waggled his eyebrows. "I happen to be very good at keeping things hot between the sheets."
She nodded. "Good. Well, use all those skills to keep yourself warm tonight, and with any luck, I'll be by tomorrow."
Zevran heaved a sigh that, though melodramatic to the ear, didn't seem so very overdone given the night that awaited him. He shrugged at the mage. She shrugged back.
"Well, I'll get you started with the hot air I promised, eh?" She chuckled. "Don't say I don't do anything for you."
The mage swirled a hand around her head and warmth filled the tiny room, heating and heating until the air was positively stifling. Any cold clinging to his skin evaporated; Zevran tensed the muscles in his arms to keep from fanning himself.
She gave him a broad grin and made for the door. "I heated it up a bit extra so you wouldn't lose too much warmth as I leave. Catch you later, then."
With a wave, she was gone, and Zevran was left to swelter alone.