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peopleofthedas2011-02-25 09:36 pm
Trouble & Strife: Chapter Forty Six
Much love to
bellaknoti the Comma Fairy, who kindly tidies up my chapters. Link to the beginning, for anyone joining us for the first time: www.fanfiction.net/s/6144534/1/Trouble_S
Title: Trouble & Strife: Chapter Forty Six
Characters: today we have Alistair, Maddy, Philippe, Anders, Zevran, Leliana, Oghren, Sigrun, Bhelen, Vartag, Petra and Torrin
Rating: T
This chapter: Competence porn, anyone? Spin Doctor Zevran figures out how to break the deadlock between the two Kings.
-oOo-
“Ooohh, I've heard of dwarves who get in fights 'bout every time they drink.”
Tapsters was virtually empty; the owner, Corra, wiped down the bar in the rhythmic manner perfected by weary barkeeps everywhere.
“And those who need to have a woman just to help them think.”
Quite a few of the dead soldiers lined up on the table were courtesy of her generosity – free rounds for the fabled Grey Wardens and their honoured guests.
“And if you want to see a dwarf whine and beg and plead.”
Some had been bought by enthusiastic patrons, back when the tavern still had some, and the rest by the eclectic, mixed-race huddle of insomniacs sprawled on benches and in chairs.
“Just pour out all his ale and take away his mead!
“Ooohh-”
“Oghren, if you sing that song one more time, I’m gonna have to kill you.” Even Sigrun sounded exhausted, her usual bounce buried under days and nights of wakefulness.
“Seconded.” The sleeping dwarf on Anders’ knee murmured at the sound of his voice near her ear, her temporary brand smeared across her cheek and on his collar. She was a surfacer, more comfortable with them than any resident of this hellhole, and a little starstruck in such exalted company.
Zevran shifted his own delightful burden, his Prince cuddled beside him on the settle rather than on his knee, but still a comforting weight against his shoulder. Every night the elf and the Wardens had gathered here to ignore their sleepless state. Every night Philippe had stoically stayed by his side; sleeping, eventually, but not leaving until morning.
He wondered why Anders hadn’t taken the pretty surface girl back to his room and lost himself in her arms.
He wondered even more why he hadn’t yet carried Philippe off and done the same.
Not that Zevran’s issues were exactly the same as the Wardens. They’d said little about it, but enough for him to know that they could feel the darkspawn crawling around beneath the city. His problem was… more difficult to pinpoint. It was the crushing weight of the mountain; the dead air; the texture of the light; the unnatural warmth, so unlike that of the sun or even a brazier. Everything here was wrong. Some part of him that he barely knew existed the rest of the time was desperate to leave, to flee back to sun and sky and grass.
So, why don’t you?
Insofar as it is possible to pointedly ignore oneself, Zev did so. Instead of pursuing that line of thought, he changed the subject.
“I notice your Commander doesn’t join us for these late-night revelries. Does she sleep?”
There was a tiny stiffening of facial muscles on every Warden. Interesting. It was Oghren who answered, his usual growl a little forced to Zevran’s ears.
“The Commander don’t fraternise. Never did.” Bloodshot eyes focussed on him blearily. “S’not so unusual. Pike twirler don’t neither, now he’s a big shot.”
“Ah, but he has a beautiful wife to spend his nights with, yes?” A wife who nightly added a concoction brewed by Leliana’s fair hands to the King’s wine, so that he could sleep. The bard knew a whole range of subtle poisons, bardic secrets that she had refused to share with Zevran. When Alistair became so tired he was no longer functioning in meetings, the two lovely ladies had put their heads together and solved the problem. Zevran mentally kissed his fingers to the Queen; Alistair had been luckier than he knew, or deserved, when he married her. Strangely, the thought held none of the old sting.
“Yeah, and his days arguing the toss with him.” Oghren yawned mightily and tugged on his beard. “How much longer they gonna be at this, anyway?”
“Oghren.” Anders’ warning tone said it all. Not a word of the negotiations between the two Kings was to be mentioned in public. Not even now, with the tavern empty of all other patrons.
“I know, I know. But flaming Ancestors, it’s been a week.”
Zev shut his eyes, allowing the conversation to flow over him, recruiting his strength. He should really remove himself and Philippe back to the Palace; send his constant shadow to sleep in a proper bed and spend some time in meditation. A Crow may go a long time without sleep, but there comes a point when his edge softens. They were getting dangerously close to that point.
It had been four days since his knife had nearly ended the procreation skills of the dwarven King’s second-in-command. Four days of nothing much. All the other details had been hammered out to perfection: the percentage of Orzammar’s mined lyrium that would be made available to the surface, the size and disposition of the Warden compound that would be set up here in Orzammar - a separate consignment of lyrium would be regularly shipped to Weisshaupt in return for that concession, making them independent of the international trade - the number of Ferelden troops Alistair would make available to retake the thaigs with the Wardens; those must be drawn in part from the nobles and Alistair was counting on simple human greed to get them – every noble would want a slice of Ferelden’s new pie. The final problem, which seemed insoluble, was Alistair’s requirement for credit, and Bhelen’s insistence on another concession in return.
They were deadlocked.
Alistair didn’t dare risk the involvement of another nation to finance him – it was impossible to know whether they would simply inform the Chantry. The only exception was Tevinter and the ex-Templar King had point-blank refused to consider that option. He also refused to consider the option of allowing his wife to be used as a playing piece in this game – to the extent where all his advisors were forbidden to even tell her of it.
Bhelen repeatedly threatened to offer the contract to another nation, but they all knew how empty the threat was – every day that passed put him at greater risk of the mining caste twigging to his little game.
At this rate, both sides would lose. They would sit and glare at each other, until the mining caste got word of the poisoned lyrium and pulled the rug out from under Bhelen’s coup.
Inspiration bloomed whole and complete in Zevran’s busy brain.
That’s it; that’s the solution.
He frowned, considering it, turning the idea around and examining it from every angle. It may well work, but he needed Leliana’s help to pull it off. Turning slightly to face the man sleeping in his arms, Zev ran his hand gently over auburn hair, still tied back, but a little mussed. The fragrance it released stirred him, but that was not the intent. A brush on his prince’s pale cheek received a better reaction; a murmur and a shift, nuzzling into his neck. Also very nice, but not the wakefulness he was looking for.
“Come, caro mio, time to go.” The murmur was low, but close enough to Philippe’s ear to make him twitch and move. A flutter of his eyelashes signified a return of consciousness. Another caress, over temple and cheek, caused a slight curve of the sexiest lips in Thedas. “Up, mio principe, we are leaving.”
“Mmm, is it morning?” The question was a little husky from the strange beverages they had consumed, the heavy smoke that always pervaded the dwarven tavern. Sleepy blue eyes peeped up at him.
“No, amore mio, I have work to do. I shall see you to your bed, so that you may sleep the rest of the night in comfort.”
Only later, after they left the tavern, his hand under Philippe’s elbow to guide the muzzy prince, only after he had seen Philippe to bed with a chaste kiss, only when he was knocking on Leliana’s door did Zevran realise what he had said.
-oOo-
“You should take the offer, Petra.” The words filled the silence of the dark room; their room, with a bed for two and a door. Beside her, Torrin shifted, tucking in behind her back, warm and comforting. “You’ve seen how much freedom Anders has. You deserve it, more than anyone.”
Freedom. Petra felt she had more freedom, right here and now, than she’d ever thought possible. “Free to live at Vigil’s Keep while you live here? Or worse, I get to be free while you’re sent back to the Circle?”
“Kinnon swore that the King said he wouldn’t do that.”
Petra turned in her lover’s arms, feeling the need, even in the blackness, to be facing him for this discussion. “What Kinnon said was that the King wouldn’t do that right now. But, if you’re correct, then there’s no need for me to be a Warden, is there? I can stay here with you and fight darkspawn just as easily.”
“You’ll be safer as a Warden. You’ve seen what they’re like; so much stronger than the warrior caste. You’re good enough to fight with the best, to be one of them.” There was a short silence, and the next words sounded forced, bitten off. “I- I don’t want to hold you back. You’re so much younger than me; you deserve to take everything life offers you.”
She didn’t know whether to slap him or kiss him. He’d always seemed so distant at the Circle, so self-contained and superior. Here in Orzammar, enfolded in the rapport they’d discovered, he was turning out to have soft squidgy depths. “You know that King Bhelen said he’ll make me warrior caste, and bring you into the smith caste, if we stay. I don’t know how he intends to do that with humans, but he’s the King. If he says he can, then I believe him. Being a Grey Warden is an honour, but I’m being offered a life here in Orzammar, with you.”
Petra ran a hand over his face in the dark, feeling the roughness of his beard. He’d been growing it longer, having a fancy for the braids the dwarves sported. “We could have a family, Torrin. Children with status of their own, children that no-one can take away from us.”
The sudden silence that followed her words was as deep and impenetrable as the windowless room. She held her breath, wondering if this was just her dream, and not his. There was the tiniest glimpse of the Fade and then a wisp lit the room, illuminating dark intense eyes fixed on hers.
“You want that? Truly?” She couldn’t interpret his words, couldn’t know if he was with her on this or not, but he hadn’t recoiled and that was a good start. “They’d never see the sun or the sky, does that not bother you?”
She blinked at him, a little taken aback. That aspect never crossed her mind... why would it? “Neither did we, Torrin, and not one single dwarf of Orzammar has, either. What does it matter, compared to freedom and a loving family?”
He didn’t answer; Petra saw his gaze turned inward as he drew her into a close embrace. She didn’t push it, knowing well enough that he needed time to think. A cautious man, Senior Enchanter Torrin had been, well-known and respected in the Circle for his considered judgements. Torrin, runesmith of Orzammar was developing the same reputation with his dwarven colleagues. Petra was content to have him so.
-oOo-
“Good morning, gentlemen!” Anders exuded brisk cheerfulness, and the guards of the Great Door instinctively responded.
“Atrast vala, Grey Warden. Are you leaving us today?”
“Oh, just a quick trip out to forage for some herbs. The Queen’s babes are restless, and I’m all out of elfroot to calm her stomach.” Just in case they were in any doubt about this extremely plausible story, he brandished a woven trug under their noses.
“Stay safe, Warden.” One of the guards turned the mechanism and the doors opened in ponderous style, letting in a blast of frigid air. Anders shivered, glad of his fur cloak, and trod out into the mud and chaos of the surface market. This he passed through quickly, making for the edge of the forest where he could gather the herbs that were his ostensible goal.
It was, of course, a perfectly normal tactic for a mage of his experience to lay protective glyphs along his route, in case of wild animals. The fact that they would also trap anyone who happened to be shadowing him was merely a happy coincidence.
Once he was confident of being entirely alone and unwatched, Anders turned his footsteps towards the Ferelden camp where the rest of Alistair’s soldiers and staff resided.
-oOo-
King Bhelen drummed his fingers on his desk, drawing a wince from his faithful Second. “They are living in my palace, Vartag. How is it that you can’t tell me what’s going on?”
“Highness, I’ve tried, believe me. None of the listening posts appear to have been tampered with, but I can only assume that they’ve found them all. Nothing of import is said near any of them.”
“The servants?”
“Very few are allowed in, menials to clean at certain times, nothing more than that. Although the bulk of the King’s guard and servants are camped on the surface, King Alistair’s guard captain controls all access to their suites. He’s polite enough about it, but it’s clear he takes his job seriously.”
“Flaming Ancestors, Vartag, I’m not trying to kill them.” The King frowned, gazing at the wall, busy thoughts flickering across his face. “What about the Wardens’ quarters?”
The repetitive drum of Bhelen’s fingers was dragging over Vartag’s nerves. They were both on edge; Lady Dace had been sniffing around again, trying to find out what the surface royals were here for. The only good news was that if the King’s spies couldn’t get intelligence, the nobles had even less chance. “The Wardens talk freely with no apparent concern for listeners. But they say nothing whatsoever about the negotiations. They do talk about the best ways to try to take the thaigs back; they seem keen to get on with it.”
“The mages?”
“-seem to be tied up in their personal concerns.” Vartag tried to keep his own weariness out of his voice. They had been around and around this. “Who is being offered a place in the Wardens, and who isn’t. Whether they’ll accept it, or not. Whether King Alistair will force them back into the Circle. Who’s bedding who. The Wardens don’t appear to have told them that we’re planning a Warden compound in Orzammar, because not one of them is factoring it into their decisions.”
Drum, drum, drum, drum.
“Highness, can’t you concede the point? Surely with what’s at stake…?”
The shake of the King’s head was tiny; they had this conversation yesterday, and the day before, the refusal had been brisker to begin with. “The contract entered into the Shaperate has to be convincing. You know that. I can’t succeed in breaking the Assembly unless I can move the support of the mining caste from their houses to me, and that will only happen if I can present them with favourable terms.” Bhelen looked set to yank his own beard out with frustration. “They aren’t going to be happy about the resource they are giving up, or about how I propose to replace it.”
“You’ll be able to break the Assembly when you retake the thaigs. You’ll be made a Paragon for that; they won’t be able to resist you then.”
“It’s safer to do it now, before they can move against me.” The decision was unchanged, but Bhelen’s tone was dispirited. “If only you could get me some leverage against Alistair; he must have some dirty secrets. I refuse to believe that any man is squeaky clean, and especially not a King.”
-oOo-
The man ushered into Alistair’s presence was dressed as a courier, his clothes smeared with road dirt. He sunk to one knee, offering up a dusty leather document case. “I bring urgent news from Denerim, Your Majesty.”
While the King broke the distinctive royal seal and perused the letter, his Queen poured wine for the road-weary courier with her own hands. A string of curses falling from her husband’s lips made her head turn, brows knotting in concern.
Alistair looked up. “It’s from Eamon.” He handed Maddy the letter, turning to thank and dismiss the courier. He waited until the servant had left before speaking again. “This is going to throw the cat amongst the pigeons. I need to see Bhelen immediately.”
-oOo-
The letter lay on the table between the two Kings, an unexploded bomb with a short fuse. Leliana didn’t miss the tiny tremble in Bhelen’s fingers as he folded his hands together.
“How long do we have?” The dwarven King’s question came out calm and steady, demonstrating admirable control.
Alistair frowned, rubbing his hair. It was a habit - a physical tell - that Leliana was determined to break him of. “I’m not sure,” he admitted. “Eamon used a Royal courier, they are the fastest in Ferelden, but I don’t imagine the other messages will be far behind him. A few hours at most, I think.”
Leliana kept her eyes away from Zevran’s, seated opposite her; even the slightest hint of shared knowledge must be avoided. It was a good plan, made better by the fact that Alistair knew nothing about it. After being awakened by Zev in the early hours, and having the idea outlined, she’d spent the remainder of the night forging the letter. The royal seal, identical to the one Eamon had in Denerim, had been filched from Alistair’s desk and then quietly returned.
Quite a few people were in on this. Anders had carried the letter, together with a note from Cedric, down to the Royal encampment. Cedric’s note specified that an ordinary-looking, nondescript member of the guard should dress and act as a courier and deliver ‘the Chancellor’s’ letter to King Alistair at Orzammar. Cedric had swapped the rota to ensure that he himself was on guard at the King’s door. It wouldn’t do for some other member of the guard to hail the courier as a fellow guardsman.
All had gone as planned. As a result, both Kings now believed that word of the poisoned lyrium had finally reached the dwarven community in Denerim, and that couriers were even now riding post-haste to Orzammar, to inform their blood-relations and sponsors in the noble houses that the Chantry had dishonoured the ancient contract. This would render Bhelen’s attempt to steal the lyrium trade from under the noses of the Assembly null and void as everyone clamoured for a new deal – all seeking one that benefitted their house the most.
Through sheer professionalism Leliana kept her breathing steady, but inwardly she held her breath. Everything hinged on this moment, on the reactions of the two Kings.
Bhelen’s hard blue eyes were fixed on Alistair, suspicion oozing from every pore. This was why she and Zev had agreed to keep Alistair in the dark. He was a sweetheart, and Leliana loved him as her dearest friend, but he would have sweated and squirmed if he’d known the truth.
The dwarven King broke the agonising silence, his words grated out. “You’ll have to forgive me if I suspect your motives in this, King Alistair. It seems to me that this revelation is astonishingly well-timed for you.”
A crease formed between Alistair’s eyebrows. Leliana prayed he’d respond well. “Wait- You think I told them? You think I leaked the information?” The honest indignation in his voice was worth money in the bank. “If I had, do you really think I’d be sitting here right now, showing you the letter?” One blunt, callused finger stabbed down at the parchment. “If that was my game, Bhelen, then I’d be sat in my rooms right now waiting for offers to flood in from half the noble houses in Orzammar. Yes, there are other potential buyers, maybe more lucrative ones, but I’m right here. They would come to me first, and you know it.”
Tiny physical tells informed the bard that, yes, the dwarven King did indeed know it. The next question he asked was almost inevitable. “Then why have you brought it to me?”
“Because the Ferelden Crown would prefer to deal with the Orzammar Crown, rather than with a load of money-grubbing nobles; I have enough of those of my own, thank you. Because, if you’ll forgive me for saying so, Orzammar politics are a bloody nightmare; I got involved with them once, and that was quite enough for one lifetime. The prospect of wrangling with half a dozen noble houses doesn’t appeal to me.”
Alistair sat back, his posture relaxed, and folded his arms. Leliana hid a smile; he was about to be brutally honest, then. It was another tell she would have to work on. “And, most importantly, because we’ve spent a Maker-damned week on these contracts – a week with the darkspawn crawling inside my head - and I’m buggered if I’m going to let that go to waste unless I have to. So, do we have a deal, including my three years of credit, or do I have to go through hell a second time?” She applauded his tone, which made it perfectly clear that he would, if he was forced to.
Sincerity was going to carry the day. It rang through every syllable and Bhelen’s hostility was visibly melting in the heat of it. This was his last chance… or so he believed. His nod was reluctant, but definite. He turned to his Second. “Get the Shaper of Memories up here immediately. I want this contract signed, sealed and deposited in the Shaperate within the hour. You’ll need to get the Warden Commander also, to sign the supplementary contracts. Set up a meeting of the Assembly for as soon as possible. I’ll make the announcement there.”
Leliana detected a note of relief in Gavorn’s voice as he responded. “Yes, Highness.”
-oOo-
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Did I mention I love your Leliana and Zevran? If not, I'll mention it again. So very deliciously devious. :D
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Sweetie, I didn't even know you read T&S. So glad that you do!
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And I'm a sucker for competence porn :)
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It tickles me that, if they manage to pull all of this off, Alistair will no doubt go down in history as a subtle and clever king, when all the time it's due to his team :)
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sneakingbehind them :Dno subject