On her journey down to Dusttown, Ten had been impressed with the scale and efficiency of the nastier business that kept any city humming. On her way up to the halls of government, she was impressed with how such pristine wealth could coexist with the slums she had seen below. She had, of course, seen similar ostentatious displays run up against grinding poverty her entire life. Still, on the surface, in Ferelden at least, even the fanciest of accommodations seemed to have a layer of grit on them. After all, even the great houses of the land were cleaned and kept by servants who scurried home to the Alienage or slums on the hill every night or weekend. As they reached the top of the city, Ten looked around, searching for the tattoos of the casteless on any of the servants bustling about, but found none. The bottom of the barrel in Orzammar was not even fit to sweep the streets of those on the top. Easier to keep a population in check when nobody among the respectable folk even knows them except when they go slumming to catch a deepstalker fight. Or, she thought, remembering the bald-headed kid in Dusttown, to go get some girl pregnant with two kids, only one of whom can stay with her.
Her first scheduled visit was to the royal palace, along with Sten and Wynne. They met someone whose name Ten could not pronounce on the first try, but who clearly had spoken with Sten before. They had to stand several feet apart to be able to look each other in the eye, and so each spoke quite loudly to be understood.
"We have a report for your master," Sten announced.
"You… did as we asked?" the dwarf asked. He swept dark eyes slyly over Wynne and Ten. They lingered suspiciously on the latter, whom he had not seen before.
"We did," Sten stated, "And we found one among our number within."
"Good morning," Ten said, trying to strike the balance between serious and friendly.
"What's that?"
"That's the Grey Warden," Wynne said.
"Huh." The dwarf approached her, squinting up at her as though confused, "Vartag Gavorn. Well met."
"Teneira Tabris," said Ten. She was not sure if dwarves shook hands, or air-kissed, or bowed, so she did nothing and waited for an indication of what was proper.
"She doesn't look like a warrior," Vartag said, turning his attention back to Sten.
"Neither do you," said Sten, "And yet you are here, fully armed and a guardian of the royal family. Much like she was within the den of the criminals your master sought, having taken care of most of the militia therein."
"Really," Vartag said, looking back at Ten, his expression still skeptical, but a little more interested, "So, are you one of those magi? Like your distinguished companion?" He nodded at Wynne.
"No Ser," Ten said, "I am but a humble maiden who until recently ran a potions shop."
"Ah. Merchant caste. Very well," Vartag said, slotting her into a system he understood, "And you just happened to, what, be wandering around Dusttown and find your way into a crime syndicate's lair?"
"I seek to root out criminality wherever it may be found," Ten declared.
"Right…" Vartag said, and turned his attention back to the two he had met before, "So did you… do as we asked?"
"Perhaps this ought to be discussed in private," Wynne suggested. Her eyes were twinkling - she was delighted to be let in on a teensy conspiracy. As Sten had observed, there was little that Fereldens enjoyed more than putting one over on another. Probably the latent Orlesian influence.
"Very well," Vartag said and nodded to one of the retainers guarding the great door of the palace, letting the three strangers inside. The main foyer was occupied by lords and ladies aplenty, much like its counterpart in Denerim, but then they were off into a hallway and behind another door, and then another, and to what must have been the private wing. The main foyer had been splendid as Ten would have expected, and the hallway beyond was no less so, the halls lined with sculptures and paintings, each surface immaculately clean.
"We did leave the documents, as requested," Wynne said, "But while we were there, we recovered these." She produced the other documents as though from thin air and handed them to Vartag. Ha, you just abused your connection with the Fade to pull a party trick, didn't you.
Vartag's eyes swept over the papers and widened as he reached the end. "This must be Harrowmont's doing. What an accusation!"
"Scurrilous indeed," Ten said.
"And it was the Grey Warden herself who discerned that they were forgeries," Sten remarked.
"Well of course I did," Ten said, "Certainly nobody of such standing would stoop so low as to engage assassins in such a tactless manner. I have never heard of such a thing."
"Shocking, I tell you. Very well, he has no appointments this morning, and he must know of this immediately," Vartag said. He nodded to two sentries posted at a door in the back of the second foyer they were standing in. They stepped aside, pointing their halberds out and away from the door. Vartag knocked thrice on the doors, and, without waiting for a reply, opened them and walked through, "Your Highness!" he barked.
They proceeded through a large library. While it was well-appointed and lined with bookshelves that Ten fully believed held a whole civilization's worth of knowledge, it seemed… dingier. It was not dirty, per se, but it was cluttered. As many books littered the floor as stood on the shelves, each placed face down to mark a page and, she was impressed to see that as many were written in various surface dialects as either ancient or modern dwarven script.
The spokesman's shout had gotten the attention of a man in his forties, seated at the end of a long table, poring over a map which Ten was surprised to see was of the surface, the territory between Redcliffe and Highever. Beneath his chair were scattered crumpled papers, looking like notes he had taken and discarded. He looked up and watched the strangers enter, appraising them each in turn. Ten instinctively looked at the ground as soon as his gaze turned to her. "These are your surfacers?" he asked.
"They have uncovered a slanderous gambit by your rival," Vartag announced. He strode up to his master and put the papers down in front of him, "From Jarvia's very lair."
The prince sighed. He moved the documents from his map, and read them over quickly - twice if Ten's observations on the movements of his rather beady dark eyes were to be trusted. "Heh," he grunted once he was done, "Like anyone would take notes on a criminal sodding conspiracy. What an idiot move."
Vartag looked furtively at the surfacers, who remained silent, "Right, who would do that?" So the plot was not Bhelen's idea, was it.
The prince cast the documents aside and rose, striding up to Sten and looking up at him, "So you, big fellow, you're the… I'm sorry, what are your sort called again?"
"Qunari," Sten said, his voice betraying his irritation.
"And the old lady's the mage. Nobody said anything about you," the prince said, his eyes falling on Ten, "What are you?"
"She's a Grey Warden," Wynne said.
"You're in remarkably good shape for one of those," the prince remarked, "Vartag here says you want troops for the surface."
"We do," Ten said.
"Well, that's good because I want to send troops to the surface," the prince said. "Remind you a lot what we're capable of. All the talent and ingenuity of this land, rotting under this mountain with nobody to appreciate it."
Ten cocked her head to the side, "What do you mean, your highness?"
He approached her. He was very tall for a dwarf, nearly as tall as Ten herself, and could look her in the eye without craning his neck, "What you see of our work on the surface are mere trinkets. Shoddy work by hacks looking to make a handful of silver from topsiders who wouldn't know quality craftsmanship if it sliced their ear off. What you have been allowed access to is but a mere shadow of what we are capable of," he said. He tended to spit a little when he talked and his breath smelled like he probably needed to have a tooth pulled. It took every ounce of Ten's self-control to keep from flinching, "Tell me, Grey Warden, have you ever seen a city like Orzammar?"
"I can't say I have. Your Highness."
"Of course you haven't. And yet it is but a fraction of what it would be, if not for my ancestors' foolish enslavement to tradition that has not served us in generations."
Ten nodded slowly. As repellant as this man was, he had a point.
"You've been to Dusttown. You must have been," he said.
"I have," she said.
"So you have seen the people who live there, hobbled by accidents of their birth, with no regard for their acumen. Who knows what remarkable smiths, valiant warriors, or brilliant scholars might be living and dying down there, illiterate and ignored their whole lives?"
It's like he's listened to me rant before.
"You know what I'm talking about," the prince continued, "I can see it on your face. The succession, unfortunately, is also beholden to traditions that no longer serve us. The noble houses, begun by those who earned their place, simply passed from eldest child to eldest child with no thought, not a single thought for whether that heir is even capable of wielding what power they were given."
Well, he certainly talks a big game. "Are you not… also one of these heirs?" Ten asked hesitantly.
"Ha!" the prince exclaimed, and pointed one thick finger at her, "I like you. You're right about that, you certainly are. But I have such plans for this place. I won't blow smoke up your hole and pretend it is chiefly for the benefit of the casteless, of course, or the surfacers, it is also selfish." The prince turned and began pacing to and fro, his eyes on his feet before him but his mouth continuing to run at an ever-increasing pace. "How can a people thrive when so many who could contribute are prevented from doing so by rules that no longer make sense?"
"If they ever did," Ten muttered.
"Right!" Bhelen turned on his heel and emphasized this point with a wild gesticulation, "The rules were not set up with the good of us as a people in mind. They were set up by rulers, complacent in the safety of their holdings, to keep everything to themselves! They could not foresee a day when we would fall and still leave the greatest part of our potential untapped. But that day came generations ago!"
The prince did another hundred-eighty-degree turn and continued his march up and down the room, "While that may have served us at one point, if it continues, we will only be further diminished as the decades wear on." He turned again, waving his hand out in a grand gesture at the three surfacers, "But I will not see it continue. I will drag my people into modernity kicking and screaming if I have to." His final lap brought him right back to facing Ten, his foul breath hitting her square in the nose yet again.
The face of progress is not always pretty.
"Harrowmont would see us stagnate, hole up, wait under the mountain for the fate of our surface cousins to come for us as well."
"I think I understand your position, your highness. What would you have us do?" asked Ten.
"A dead king can have all sorts of words put into his mouth," the prince said. Mercifully, he turned and began pacing again as he changed the subject, "That is what that… slimy son of a nug is trying to do, saying my own… my own father used his dying breath to disinherit me." His voice was getting a bit manic, "He would speak on behalf of my departed father, have me put aside so he could drive us all to ruin. But I have thought of what might, at long last, break the stalemate."
"And what is that, your Highness?" asked Ten.
"Do you know what a paragon is, Grey Warden?"
"I understand the concept."
"So you know that there is little that the people of Orzammar wish to hear more than the word of a living paragon. And there is but one," Bhelen continued, turning on his heel and pacing back toward the surfacers, "But she is missing. A brilliant smith. Exceptional."
"Missing where?" asked Ten.
"The Deep Roads," Bhelen intoned, stopping several feet from Ten. His eyes scanned her for a reaction.
"The Deep Roads!" Sten exclaimed. In his voice was the closest thing to excitement Ten had ever heard out of him, "We will go and seek this smith."
"Well that was easy," the prince remarked, "I suppose enthusiasm is the better part of accomplishment. Her name is Branka. She went in search of a relic known as the Anvil of the Void, lost as the territory where it lay was lost. I, of course, tried to prevent her from going. What a waste of a remarkable mind, seeking what was when she could be focusing on what could be, but she insisted and my father agreed. And so she has been gone these two years."
"Why us?" asked Ten.
"Because if I sent my men after her and she spoke on my behalf, the assembly would believe I made her voucher a condition of her rescue. You, however, have no deepstalker in this fight. You are an outsider," the prince said.
"Very well," Ten said, "I suppose fighting darkspawn is squarely in my wheelhouse. I will see what I can do."
"Excellent!" Bhelen exclaimed, clapping his hands together with a thunderous noise that echoed around the vast room, "Mark my words, Grey Warden. The betterment of the dwarven kingdom is the betterment of the whole region. You will stand to benefit from it as well."
"And what do we do about this?" Vartag asked, waving the documents in the air.
"Wipe your crack with them for all I care," Bhelen said. He returned to his seat, a satisfied smile on his face, and recommenced staring at his maps, "You're dismissed. All of you. Return when you have a paragon at your side."
The three of them made their way back out into the public-facing area of the palace and then back out onto the promenade.
"Are you sure this is a good idea?" Wynne asked, as soon as they were out of earshot of any who might convey her doubt back to the prince.
"Do you have any better?" asked Ten.
Wynne sighed, "I suppose I don't."
"You don't have to come," Ten said, "I think a smaller group might be more advantageous."
Relief washed over the senior mage's face, "I appreciate that. I don't… care for the underground."
"It's not my favorite either," Ten admitted.
"I had been meaning to ask you about something," Wynne said, "I was approached by a young lady."
"Oh, was it… Dagmar?"
"Dagna," Wynne said.
"Yeah, she saw Morrigan turn into a mouse and thought it was the greatest thing ever," Ten said, "I may have sent her your way."
"Well, I'm glad you did. We drank tea together the other day, and apparently, she longs for nothing more than to study at the Circle. She can't use magic, of course, but she can handle lyrium without… how do you always phrase it 'losing her shit' and we did lose a great many of our Tranquil in the unpleasantness earlier this year," Wynne said.
"I suppose just making more Tranquil for the sake of it isn't exactly…"
"It's bloody unethical," Wynne said, pursing her lips as though she had tasted something bitter, "But that does not mean the templars would not do it. I only hope that they have not started already."
"Right," Ten said, looking away.
"So I would like to take her there," Wynne said, "It should be about three weeks all in, we can take the donkey."
"You're not going out on the roads alone," Ten said.
"I am not," Wynne said, "Sister Lelianna and the Antivan have agreed to accompany me."
"So you're just going to take half of my people?" Ten said, crossing her arms.
"Morrigan is just as capable of patching you up as I am," Wynne insisted.
"But it hurts less when you do it," Ten said, then felt a bit embarrassed at how childish she sounded.
"Young lady, I have seen you drink half a pint of whiskey and then stitch your own flesh together with a rusty needle."
"That doesn't mean I enjoy it," Ten grumbled, "But very well, if you feel this is a duty to your people."
"Exactly," Wynne said, smiling, "That is exactly what it is."
"The others are in front of that estate there," Sten announced lowly, "You should go before the spokesman sees us."
"All right. Regroup in the only tavern where Sten can stand," Ten said. She let her companions fall back, and she walked up to where Alistair and Lelianna were conversing with another dwarf, this one wearing a different sigil on his tunic. Ten felt a little guilty realizing that she was having trouble seeing the difference between dwarven faces, having to specifically note differences in clothing, height, and hairstyle to avoid confusing one for the other.
"Ah, here she is," Lelianna said, waving, "Lieutenant Forender, this is Teneira Tabris. It is thanks to her that the Carta will trouble the good folk of Orzammar no more."
The spokesman, evidently named Forender, assessed Ten for a brief moment, "Your friends here said they found you imprisoned within the lair with the larger part of Jarvia's force already dead at your hand."
"Yes," Ten said, "I suppose that is what happened."
"What were you doing there in the first place?" he asked, narrowing his eyes at her, "It is not often that an outsider arrives in Orzammar only to immediately head down to Dusttown. I believe you were, in fact, specifically warned against it."
"She has a soft heart, Lieutenant," Lelianna said, hurriedly, seeing that Alistair was opening his mouth to say something, probably obnoxious, "She seeks to aid the destitute of every land she travels."
"Soft enough to wind up in Dusttown, hard enough to slaughter a den full of thugs," the lieutenant observed, "Next time I suggest you simply donate to one of the many reputable charities doing good work in the area. Much safer. Though I suppose we have your staggering lack of good sense to thank for the sudden decrease in organized criminal activity over the last several days."
"But that is not all. Like I was saying," Lelianna interrupted, "We did not find what you sought, but it seems that your esteemed rival has stooped to forgery and…" she turned to Ten, "Calomnie?"
"Slander," said Ten.
"Really! I thought from how I have heard you use the word, it just meant 'difficult truth.'" In any case, we have found this…" She pulled a maneuver not unlike Wynne had, though Ten could see she had merely had the documents folded up and stashed in one sleeve of her robes.
Ten opted for following the good sister's lead and resolved to keep her mouth shut unless explicitly asked for her input. Let's see what she does with this. She knows what she's doing or is doing a good job of faking it, which is as good if not better. This spokesman's eyes scanned the page from top to bottom. Unlike Vartag, he did not look surprised. "I should have known he would pull something like this. Follow me. You are expected."
In contrast to the private wing of the palace, the estate of House Harrowmont was immaculate. Not a mote of dust on shelf or suit of armor - of which many lined the grand entryway. The entry itself was a series of hard angles, clearly measured, hewn, and polished by many meticulous hands over the centuries. Forender led them down a hallway, lit by crystal lamps, past statues and portraits. Ten swept her eyes over them, most showing dour-faced lords and ladies in the fashion of whatever time was theirs. The last one, closest to the door which led to their goal, made Ten pause. A family portrait was lit by a dim yellow crystal, a dwarven man wearing robes of state seated on a low-backed chair, his wife in a fine silken gown and headdress stood beside him. On the other side stood a girl, maybe eleven or twelve. In contrast to the parents, the girl looked miserable, no doubt owing to the very uncomfortable-looking lace at the collar of her gown. It was, of course, a painting, and of course the child was very young but… Ten tried to put the features onto an older, broader face, crop the hair short, and replace the gown with breeches and waistcoat.
"Is this Lord Harrowmont?" asked Ten.
"His late brother, Artald," Forender corrected her.
"And the lady and child?"
A flicker of distaste crossed the lieutenant's features, "The Lady Vreidith. His wife. She was from House Ranska. The girl was Hanyeshka."
Ten and Alistair looked at each other. Ten felt a little guilty, first for always somewhat believing the Hanne Harrowmont she knew in Denerim had been exaggerating their background, and second for now being pretty sure she knew what was in their breeches.
"What became of them?" Ten asked.
"Lord Artald fell victim to a plague, may he rest well beneath the stone. The rest of it is... well, it is not a very nice story."
"I see," Ten said, but did not budge, and did not intend to until Forender came out with some version of it.
"Upon her husband's death, Lady Vreidith… took it upon herself, with the help of her brothers, to attempt to hold the seat until Hanyeshka was of age."
"But the girl, was she not Artald's heir?" asked Ten.
"No," Forender said, shaking his head, "Artald died before he could officially name an heir, and so the designation of his own father took precedent. It was a dreadful mess. The king had to get involved."
"And what did the king decide?"
"That Pyral would inherit the title and Hanyeshka would be named his heir," Forender said, "We thought it a great compromise."
"I take it something else happened."
"Lady Vreidith passed several years after Artald. After that, a plot was uncovered to have Lord Pyral assassinated, in which Vreidith was implicated, no doubt seeking to put her daughter in charge prematurely. It was a dreadful scandal. There was nothing to be done but for the girl to redeem the family's honor. She has joined the Legion of the Dead. It is a testament to Lord Pyral's good nature that he keeps their portraits in his hall with the honored dead of the family."
"The very model of grace and good breeding," Ten said.
"Quite," Forender agreed, not tasting a drop of the irony Ten had put in the sentence, "And you shall meet him presently."
Forender cleared his throat loudly and the two of them scurried to catch up. He led them through another door and into a sitting room. A real fire roared in the hearth therein. At the sound of the door, a middle-aged dwarf, grey-bearded and rosy-cheeked, stood from where had been sitting in an armchair.
"Ah! Dulin," he said in a rumbling baritone. He smiled at each of his guests in turn, deep blue eyes twinkling amid a cobweb of wrinkles, "Welcome. My friends."
"It is an honor, monseigneur," Lelianna intoned.
"The honor is mine, Sister," the lord said, "Mutual respect for each others' traditions is, after all, of such importance to us under the mountain. And you," he approached Alistair, "You must be the Grey Warden."
"I am, Ser."
"You're in decent health, considering. Never seen one of you who wasn't… well, that is unpleasant. My apologies." The lord's eyes fell on Ten, and he walked right up to her, peering into her face in fascination, "I do not mean to be impertinent, but are you an elf?"
"I am," Ten said.
"I must confess I have never seen one of your kind before," he said, "You don't look all that different from these two."
Feeling magnanimous, Ten pulled her hair back and let him have a better look at her ears.
"That's all?" Harrowmont asked, sounding a little put out.
"To be entirely honest, aside from the ears, there is so much overlap I hesitate to guess which traits are down to physiology and which are down to culture," Ten said.
"You're very well-spoken," Harrowmont said, nodding, though he did not sound approving.
"It is, evidently, thanks to her that our little problem with the Carta has been solved," Forender interjected, sensing that the lord had been made a wee bit uncomfortable at how easily Ten spoke to him, "She singlehandedly fought off several dozen Carta foot soldiers."
"Is that true?"
"As many as I could," Ten said.
"She poisoned the rest. Disturbing scene, really," Alistair added.
"Well," Harrowmont said, "The aftermath of a grand extermination is not likely to be pretty. So I trust this small problem of extortion has been solved. Permanently?"
"Until another comes in to take Jarvia's place," Ten said.
"Unfortunately I do not have the power to prevent that at the moment," the lord sighed, "But I trust that one day soon, I will. With your help, yes?"
"Of course," Lelianna said, "And while we did not find the evidence you believed to be there, we have brought you something that may help.
"Evidence, my lord," Forender added, "Of a vile, libelous campaign by the prince to suggest that it was you - not him - who was in bed with the Carta." He handed the documents Lelianna had brought to the lord, who scanned them.
"I should have known he would stoop to such things," Harrowmont sighed, "It is always sad to see the scion of such an honorable house become a slave to ambition and radicalism."
"You speak of the prince, yes?" Ten asked.
"I do," Harrowmont sighed, "You must understand it, yes? Rules are rules for a reason. Without them, our society would descend into chaos. Imagine children not knowing what role they will play until they are grown! They would never catch up. But… I suppose I should not bore you with the political intricacies of a polity that is not your own. You have come here for a reason. You need troops for a war brewing on the surface, yes?"
"Brewing might be an understatement," Alistair said, "Surely you must have noticed that the numbers of darkspawn that threaten your own borders have drastically decreased in the last several months."
"That is not my department," Harrowmont said, "But yes I have heard the rumors. That usually means they have breached the Deep Roads and are running amok up where they have suddenly become your problem."
"That is true," Alistair said, "They are definitely a problem for us right now."
"And so you want our fighting men to be diverted to the surface, to deal with your problem," Harrowmont continued. He has a point, Ten thought, they have to handle ninety-nine percent of all darkspawn issues ninety-nine percent of the time. It's as if the humans came to us when the rat population outside the Alienage got to dangerous proportions.
"Your kingdom signed a treaty," Alistair said, mildly, "We simply seek to hold you to its terms."
"Of course," Harrowmont acknowledged.
"We have a new regime, on the surface. In Ferelden, at least," Ten offered, "I'm sure that were you to assist us with this threat, new terms could be struck by which our own forces would bolster your own in the deep."
"No!" Harrowmont exclaimed, "No. I do not mean to offend, of course, but… we do not welcome the interference of outsiders."
"Interference?" Ten asked, raising her eyebrows.
"I know some things of humans," Harrowmont said, his eyes back on Ten, "And one of them is that it is their nature to seek control over all things. I can see on your face that you know what I'm talking about. And... I do not think they would be able to help themselves but to try to… assert their will over us down here."
"Well that's not entirely fair," Alistair started, but Lelianna glared at him and he quieted down.
"I appreciate the concern," Ten said, "But if that is your fear, then would not a display of your superior technology and fighting prowess be a solid reminder not to try?"
Harrowmont was quiet for a moment, scanning the faces of each surfacer in turn. "You are desperate, aren't you."
"Very much so," Ten said.
"Well, I cannot do anything about it right now. I am but a peer in the assembly. I cannot grant you anything until Bhelen is stopped. He is, as we speak, planning to destroy everything our ancestors have built," Harrowmont said, "If you stop this madness, you will have your troops."
"And what may we do in furtherance of this goal?" asked Ten.
Harrowmont paused, "Do you know what a paragon is?"