XVIII: Payment on Delivery
In the darkened confines of a Lowtown warehouse, Varric yawned. Too late for this shit, he thought ruefully as he sat upon the chest that the whole night hinged upon.
"Oh, don't you start, Varric," Carver grumbled from the pillar he leaned against. "My sister's bad enough as it is. Like as not to put me to sleep."
"It is an unholy hour," Hawke chimed in, to Varric's surprise. She'd been quiet all day, stretching long into the night – managing to surpass even Martin's usual stoic recalcitrance. It was unlike her – she'd been talkative enough when he'd picked her up at Gamlen's, if deflective when he had tried carefully to steer the conversation back to Gamlen fucking them over.
She'd quieted when Martin had joined their day-drinking at the Hanged Man. By Junior's later arrival, she was near silent.
Varric was surprised he'd managed to get the go ahead from her for this job, though that was before Martin had shown up. Whatever's bothering her, it can't all be Gamlen. They had to know he lost the fortune before, right? A known house like Amell doesn't just drop down to Lowtown unless someone colossally shits the bed, and Gamlen's an obvious bed-shitter.
"Too right," Carver agreed with his sister, his tone strangely thoughtful. Even Junior's acting weird. Since when does he take a second's thought before he says his piece? Or even thinks to agree with Hawke of all people?
"Well…" Varric said, more to Hawke than to Carver. "Wasn't much choice for your line of work this week, not in Hightown anyways."
"'Not much choice,'" Hawke echoed quietly. "So there was choice, then."
The dwarf leaned into his seat and withdrew Bianca, more to brace himself than to actually work on her in any way. "Well, old Tintop was at it again - "
"Say no more," Hawke replied. "Wouldn't touch him with Carver's sword, let alone shake his bloody hand."
"Who's that?" Carver interjected. "What's so terrible about him?"
"Nothing really," Varric shrugged. "Bit of an ass, but no worse than the usual. Only trouble is, his idea of a sound financial decision is hiring out to the Qunari."
Carver's face twisted into a sneer as he snorted. "Yeah, plough that. Qunari don't trade with no one."
"Well, when you put it like that..."
"So's why we here anyways?" Carver continued, interrupting Varric's jibe. "I mean, the coins good, right? No qunari neither?"
"Nah," Varric replied amiably. "Simple product exchange. This chest," he gestured to the little thing he graced with his behind. "For coin to some.… interested parties. Somewhere in the line of twenty-five sovereigns. The 'payment on delivery' to Anso's original 'half upfront.' Pretty good deal, unless this box's packed full of unrefined lyrium. Wish I could check," he added as an afterthought. "Apparently Anso didn't cheap out with this lock."
"What, you can't twist a pick?" Carver mocked, some of his usual venom returning to his tone. "You sure talk a lot about how good you are, but now some chest has you stumped? Pfft."
Varric only grinned at him. "I didn't say that. Any lock can be broken, it just takes the time and talent. Technically I could get through it, but we don't have that time part. You following Junior? Too risky, too. Probably rigged up to show tampering to the right eye. Wouldn't want Anso's customers to get the idea their precious cargo's been messed with."
Carver shrugged in response, his greatsword tilting on his back. "Sure, I follow. Makes sense, I suppose." He looked down, as if lost in thought.
The hell? Ok, now this is bothering me. Didn't even call me shorty. This night is weirding me out.
They all remained silent for a moment – Hawke shined her spear's pommel across her lap, as she sat on one of the many scattered crates that littered the gloomy warehouse. The few torches she'd lit as they'd come in (with just a single flick of her tinderbox, lucky woman) cast her in an otherworldly, shadowed glow. Her hands dragged a rag slowly across the carved visage of Andraste adorning her spear, though by her posture her mind was far from her task. Every few moments she idly toed her buckler, a new one bought after that disaster that was Sundermount. Varric shuddered at the memory of that… what did Martin call it, a shade? Screw that. Seriously sundered her shield though.
He moved on at his own bad pun, refusing to acknowledge the joke even to himself. Carver stood garbed in his usual leather tunic, his greatsword weighing heavily on his back as he relaxed. Usually Carver leaning would seem a casual affectation, a somewhat unnatural presentation of aloofness. Now though… Now his eyes, uncloaked in shadow (unlike Hawke's) stared defocused at the floor.
Seemingly sensing Varric's gaze Carver's eyes darted up. "So, Varric… you said twenty-five sovereigns?" He asked slowly.
The now fully present hunger in Carver's gaze immediately told Varric where that question was going. "Don't even think about it, Junior. Anso's guild. Get it? You don't steal from the Merchant's Guild, and I really don't steal from the Merchant's Guild. Kinda how being a member works. Besides, even if he wasn't guild – all the times I've dealt with him he's been straight. It's bad business to fuck with straight shooters. Few enough of them as it is, and they tend to talk to each other. I got my own… well, Bartrand's got House Tethras dealings to manage. Even Anso's word could lose us a lot of coin down the line."
"'Even?'" Hawke echoed, for now the second time that night. Not much gets by her, the dwarf thought approvingly.
"Yeah, even," Varric replied. "He's not a bad guy but… well, he's a few sisters short of a choir. Way I hear it he pretty regularly moves lyrium. Probably touched the stuff the one time, maybe twice. Now he's crazy paranoid. You can hardly get through a conversation with the duster without him jumping at least once."
"So he smuggles lyrium?" Carver asked, eyes narrowing. He threw his glare Hawke's way as he continued. "That's about the bloody ploughing opposite of keeping away from Templars, ain't it?"
Hawke kept her attention on her work. "If you're going to be an angry prig, Carver, then shut your gob. You might say something you regret."
Though Varric understood the sentiment quite well – after all it was only prudent to stay out of the Templar's way in Kirkwall – but the sheer chill in that exchange only further confused him. Seriously, if this keeps up I'm just going to ask, to hell with it. They're acting like crazy people.
More to thaw the disagreement than anything else Varric spoke again. "The point's moot, anyways. I really doubt it's lyrium. Anso wouldn't ship that shit unshielded. Too easy for any mage or Templar walking down the street to get a whiff of. Not to mention unshielded lyrium is a recipe for disaster in and of itself."
Hawke grunted at that, whether in agreement or simple acknowledgment Varric certainly couldn't tell. She went back fully to her cleaning, Carver to his considering, and Varric to his own wool gathering.
Wish I had a good swig of Lowtown fare right about now. Good shit, like a dockside brew. Should get me one of those flasks Mallet carries around.
Although… then I wouldn't have the excuse to bum off him. He smiled fondly at the memory of Martin's mild irritation, and the sullen soldier's stoic acceptance of the inevitable. He lets me have it, in the end. Worth it to not carry just to see an expression out of the guy.
Although… can't get a laugh or a drink when he's passed out at the Hanged Man. Our Mallet might have a problem, there.
"I was wondering, Varric..." Carver suddenly spoke, interrupting the dwarf's thoughts. "How's Merrill doing? Did you ask her to come with tonight?"
"Didn't you just stop by her house this week?" Varric shot back slyly.
"That was two days ago," Carver answered. "Was just wondering, is all. Would've been nice to have her here."
"Well, I did ask her. She didn't seem ready, not after last week's… adventure, let's say. And yeah, I'm sorry I wasn't there to help, before you get all angry at me Hawke. Didn't realize something so simple could go to shit so easily."
"Not really fair to blame you, Varric, not when Carver's so close to hand." Hawke replied easily. Carver had the grace to remain silent, and Hawke continued, softening. "Just the usual fare for Kirkwall."
"Yeah," Varric answered sadly. "I guess so."
"But," Hawke slid in, her voice gaining back some of her usual levity. "You never answered Carver's question. How is our waif Daisy?"
Varric shrugged. "Nervous. Not as bad as last week, but still not eager to step out her door. Probably best for a little bit, maybe coax her out with a night at the Hanged Man before any more jobs."
"Or maybe a day at the market," Carver supplied eagerly. "Stop by The Cooker maybe. Food's mostly shite, but not all of it is."
"I'm sure you're right ready to volunteer," Hawke said good-naturedly. "A night on the town with your new sweetling no doubt... though she's a bit more bairn than your usual, isn't she? Practically robbing the cradle."
"She isn't a child, sister." Carver bit back, finally his usual angry self. "She knows a lot. About elves and all that. She's clever. Have you even been around to see her yet?"
Hawke's response was a weak laugh. "I didn't want to bombard her. I know you two and Martin have all dropped by."
"Hawke…" Varric chided, genuinely surprise at her.
"Don't start, Varric," Hawke sighed. "Last time I visited she had a nice day of taking jokes for jabs, with a nice bone-powdered Veil-torn finale. I doubt she wants to see me right now."
"What's this about Veil-tears? Bones?" Carver demanded. "What the bloody - "
"Skip it, brother," Hawke interrupted, tone leaving no room for debate. "Ask Varric, or Martin maybe. Sometime when I'm not around. I'd rather not even think on it again."
Varric chuckled nervously after a moments silence. "Well that got serious fast."
"That's just what I said," Hawke muttered.
A sudden pounding at the warehouse's door nearly toppled Hawke from her seat. Carver had a hand on his sword faster than Varric could blink, while Varric immediately moved a finger to Bianca's trigger.
Hawke recovered first. "Come right in, door's open!" She called, pushing herself up with her spear, blade down.
Several men clanked in, seeming to fill the relatively vast room with their bulk. Four men in mail, one in plate of some sort of plum colored metal – is that sodding nevarrite? The plated one directed his fellows in quick, one-word demands, and they set into various positions around the edges of the room. The man in plate stepped forward, his full helm's face mask looking all the world like a skull frowning down at them.
Varric kept at his seat, Carver had his blade halfway out before Hawke put a hand on his arm.
The man in plate tilted his head, the flickering light throwing the deep purple of the metal all about him. He said nothing for a long moment as he studied their group. His gauntleted hand rested on the hilt of a large sword tied to his hip.
"Greetings," Hawke began amiably, with no apparent care in the world. "Though I'm all for being prepared, this being Kirkwall and all, you bring quite the arms for a quick business transaction. Wouldn't you agree?"
The man turned his head back and forth between Carver, Hawke, and Varric, before tilting backwards slightly. "IMPERATOR!" he bellowed, so forcefully that Varric reflexively slid back behind the chest for cover. It took quite a bit of will to follow Hawke's gestures to not bring Bianca to bear on the sudden intruders.
The scraping wood of the door opening sounded again as one final figure entered their little warehouse. This man was smaller than plum-plate, his dark half-plate matching his dark skin as he wafted into the light. He bore an impressive mustache, waxed and treated, set below measuring gray eyes.
The man's tanned face wrinkled slightly as he grimaced, his perfect mustache tilting sideways.
Purple-plate half bowed at Mustache, throwing up an intricate imperial salute at the man. His harsh voice whispered quietly from within his helm, though this time Varric couldn't catch the words.
Mustache nodded, his grimace tightening. "Gratias tibi, Centurion."
At Mustache's words Varric's stomach fell. He'd already suspected, but the language he only half-understood confirmed it. Sodding Tevinters. Shit. Though the Old Imperials weren't such an uncommon sight in Kirkwall as compared to many other of their former domains, they were still rare enough to be an uncomfortable oddity.
Especially with such an obvious fat cat. Shit, shit, shit.
Mustache kept looking about with affected disinterest. "Woman, you are clearly in command here." His near accentless Trade, though calm and level, practically screamed 'I'm rich and I'm better than you.' Varric hated the man immediately. "I do not see our agreed upon merchandise. You will tell me where it is."
Carver looked about ready to strike, though for her part Hawke kept up appearances as she stood relaxed with her spear tip down – only now her buckler lay proudly strapped to her forearm. Damn, I didn't even see her pick it up. "Well, fancy not seeing what's locked away in a box. That chest there, as cleverly defended by my stalwart associate Varric. Secured out of sight, from Anso to you."
The Tevinter did not so much as glance the box's way before responding, voice unchanged. "Do not think to mock me, Southerner. Where have you stored your cargo? Tell me, immediately. I am not one to be kept waiting."
"Well excuse me," Hawke bit back, this time she evidently couldn't keep the sarcasm out of her reply. "I wasn't aware there was such a surefire hurry to all this. By all means, I'll slap the bitch's haunches and get a move on. That chest is what pish we were sent to trade and the chest is all we've got. Unopened, untampered with. How can you be so sure it's not what you're after?"
Mustache's whole face twisted as he finally met Hawke's eyes, his disinterest finally corrupted by growing anger. "Do you take me for a fool? An elf of this size would not fit in a box so small were it not sectioned – and were it to be sectioned there would be a reward most foul for you. I will not - "
"Elf?" Carver barked. "What the bloody hell do you mean by that?"
Plum-plate's gauntlet moved from resting on to gripping the hilt of his sword as Mustache's mustache wiggled dangerously. "Do not interrupt me again, dog. I am Altus, Valerius June. I have come to this barbaric southland for Magister Danarius' property and have searched far and wide for its return. I was promised its return on this eve, by Dwarven Guild assurance, at this location. You will not extend my exile to this wretched land any longer than must be. Present it to me at once - "
Varric's big mouth opened before he could think to close it. "I mean, elves might time and again be somewhat disagreeable – I mean, just look at the Dalish – but, wouldn't it be a bit easier to not refer to one as 'it.' Makes the whole thing confusing. Maybe that's just me." You idiot, Varric.
Mustache's eyes threatened to bug out of his head. "Insolent… pumilio!" He whirled back to Hawke, his hand now gracing his own short sword's hilt. "I will not be spoken to thusly. You will provide what was promised, or your heads I shall take as recompense."
At 'heads' six swords scraped suddenly from their scabbards, chief amongst those Plum-plate's.
Shit, shit, shit.
Carver finally had his own sword out, held ready in both hands. Varric's fingers tightened around Bianca possessively as he still crouched behind Anso's chest. Little good it'll do me, he realized as he glanced about. At least one of the swordsmen stood behind him half a dozen paces, ready to strike.
Despite it all, Hawke's spear remained down as her bucklered hand rose to her bosom.
"Oh, by the Maker's tits," she breathed throatily as she unlaced a flap of her leather jacket, revealing a spot of cleavage. "Oh, I do apologize for the misunderstanding, I did not realize you were Altus Valerius June!" Her hand traveled back to her chest, clutching her heart with feeling. "You see, we were just - "
Her words ceased with a grunt as her arm whipped forward and Mustache abruptly collapsed, spluttering, a dagger embedded in his neck. He clutched in vain at his ruined throat, gasping and choking on his own blood.
All hell broke loose as Carver let out a war cry, thrusting at Plum-plate even as Varric tried to take aim on the plated man. Realizing the pointlessness as Plum-plate parried Carver's blow, and Hawke stepped up to cover her brothers flank – sodding siblings in my shot – Varric swiveled, sliding his back against the chest as he tried to bring Bianca to bear on the swordsman behind.
Too late, the dwarf realized, a crash of shattering wood echoing behind him. The swordsman was already slashing down, his blade glinting in the sputtering torchlight.
Varric didn't even have time for a second's prayer, or to laugh at the joke that was this life he'd lived.
Before the blade could strike, a sudden flash of light blinded him. He threw up a hand instinctively to cover his eyes.
It only took a second – a second of bleary-eyed blinking to regain spotty vision.
The swordsman was tumbling, tumbling down – blood pouring from a massive blade half into his side, a blade that swept him to the floor with a crash. Another moment and the blade was extracted, flicking blood and bits Varric's way as it arced back behind its bearer.
An elf stood before Varric – lean and towering, his greatsword brandished behind him. Tattoos lined his arms, his face – white tracings and runes that Varric couldn't begin to even guess at. The elf bared his teeth, then glowed.
Another flash, another bleary spout of blinking and Varric rolled over, leveling Bianca overtop of Anso's chest.
Through the haze of light spots Varric saw the elf appear again, swing again – sending one of the two swordsmen who faced off with Hawke down to the floor to join Mustache in death throes. The elf flashed again and was suddenly at the corner of the warehouse, taking one of the swordsmen who had yet to engage either Hawke.
The other swordsman still fighting Hawke cried out in terror, dodging back partially through his own swing. "Umbra!" He shouted.
Stupid last words, Varric thought, as he took the opportunity to hit the panicking man with three bolts from Bianca. The feel of her kick against his shoulder was nearly as satisfying as the abrupt folding of the man as he too fell to the ground.
A mangled cry signaled the elf's victory over the final mailed swordsman, leaving only Plum-plate left standing of the 'Vints. He attempted a stab at the younger Hawke that Carver brutally hammered aside with a cross swing.
With Plum-plate's blade preoccupied Hawke took the opportunity to bodily slam the armored man to the floor, bashing his sword arm with her buckler on the way down.
Plum, clearly not overly put out by his impact with the floor tried to headbutt Hawke. His helmet met only air – she was already rolling off, already evading as Carver raised his sword for a lethal downward stab.
"Hold," a voice spoke, raw and hoarse. "Do not kill him."
The elf stepped forward from the twitching remains of his final opponent, his massive sword glinting as he raised it to a sheath on his back. In the light (and relative peace that suddenly existed) Varric finally had the opportunity to appreciate just how weird their reinforcement was.
The elf was dressed in an open-collared half-plate ensemble, its gray metal a faded sheen of undamaged splendor. He wore heavy gauntlets of the same quality – though in the flickering light they showed at least some signs of nicks and blemishes. Aside from the gauntlets and half-plate he may as well have been unarmored – he wore some sort of leather trousers, with open toed boots. Shit, he's got sodding feathers on his shoulders. His angled face was set in a grimace, tattoos that traced from his mouth down his neck pulsing with that damnable glow.
Ever the follower, Carver stopped and looked up at the elf with his blade still poised to strike. "Who the bloody hell are you? What do you want with this lot?"
The elf grimaced, stepped forward with hardly a glance at the Carver. "In a moment." His voice, though now calmer and smoother still bit with the intensity of steel.
Plum-plate's hand raised above his chest as if he could catch Carver's sword before it could come down. "Do you not know what you have done?" He stammered, voice muffled by his helmet. His accent was far thicker than Mustache's. "Do you not realize - "
In only half a heart-beat the elf was suddenly on him, straddling the man's chest with a gauntleted fist pressed to his plate.
"They do not," the elf said, tone determined yet tinged with triumph. "But I, I know with a certainty."
The low pulsing from the elf's tattoos suddenly lit the room yet again, nearly blinding Varric again – but he kept his eyes glued to the strange scene before him – he absolutely had to see what this elf was.
Intricate patterns of light shone forth from the elf – down his arms, his sides, his legs – twisting and shining both from exposed flesh and armored body. As a rising flame the tattoos burned brighter even as the elf brought his arm back to strike at the man's plate.
What's he going to do, punch him? Varric thought as he barely suppressed a near giddy laugh. Punch right through plate?
The arm went down, shining all the while, to disappear with a whisper into the man's chest, through the plate.
At Plum-plate's scream Carver took a step back. Hawke, just rising to her feet stood slackjawed and loose.
Varric's fingers twitched at the thought of Martin's flask. Shit.