Trouble & Strife: Chapter Forty Nine

[scarylady]

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_Strife

Title: Trouble & Strife: Chapter Forty Nine
Characters: today we have Alistair, Maddy, Zevran, Philippe, Kallian, Leliana, Eamon, Loopy Leanna and Arl Wulff.
Rating: T (ish) or maybe M but only just (I hate ratings) 
This chapter:  In which Alistair has a face-to-face with the Grand Cleric, while the Queen's party arrive in West Hill.

 

-oOo-

“Alistair, it is not fitting for you to ignore this. The Grand Cleric must hear of the new arrangements from your own lips.”

“Bhelen is writing to the Divine. I’ll do the same.  As for Loopy Leanna… she can hear the news from marketplace gossip for all I care.” Alistair bent again over the mountain of paperwork on his desk. Apparently, he believed the discussion to be at an end.

Eamon bit down on an unseemly retort and tried again. “I realise that, for months now, you have been accustomed to keeping information from the Chantry. Your aim in that regard has been accomplished-”

“Has it?” Alistair’s question cut straight across his Chancellor’s words. He threw down his pen and looked up, anger in his eyes. “I’m taking the Ferelden Chantry off her, Eamon. Her and the Divine; they aren’t fit to run it. How does giving her an audience, allowing her the opportunity to pick up on our intent, help us?”

Eamon sighed, recalling the conversation he’d had with his brother the previous night.

“Alistair is truly a king now, Eamon, you can’t lead him around by the nose any longer.”

“I can see he’s grown, Teagan, but unfortunately he’s developed into a blunt instrument. He must learn some subtlety if he wishes to succeed.”

“It is our job, you and I, to ensure that she learns only what we wish her to. But we must give her an audience and quickly, before she hears from elsewhere. It is not conducive to the dignity of the Crown to be seen to engage in underhanded deals.” He couldn’t resist a single snipe at his rivals. “You’ve been spending too much time with spies and assassins; you’re beginning to think like them.”

The annoyance drained out of Alistair’s face, to be replaced with faint amusement. “Those ‘spies and assassins’, as you call them, are the people who got this deal for us, Eamon.   They were the ones subtle and clever enough to force Bhelen’s hand, not me.” His Chancellor wisely kept quiet, and after a moment of thought the King capitulated. “All right, set up a meeting. And you’d better ensure I don’t have a sword to hand, because I’ll be sorely tempted to take her scheming head off.”

-oOo-

Leliana hunched over her drink, her bright hair tucked under a shabby cap. Around her flowed the music of the dockside tavern; braggadocio, bluster, rumour and gossip in every language of Thedas. A couple of Orlesian sailors were speaking disparagingly of the skills displayed by the whores of the Pearl; comparing them unfavourably with those of their favourite establishments in Val Royeaux and Antiva City. A Rivaini with tattooed arms apparently made of oak challenged a scowling Qunari to arm-wrestle. A group of native Fereldans, mercenaries of several different units if their sashes and badges were anything to go by, were topping each others’ tall tales of their doings during the Siege of Denerim.

And there, swimming up from behind their raucous voices, was the refrain she was seeking.

“…a witch, I heard, with the King in thrall.” 

Leliana tilted her head, trained ears shutting out the extraneous noise and chatter. Several voices expressed shocked amazement, one going so far as to protest that their sainted Queen was beloved of Andraste and had proved it in Lothering.

“Ah, a clever ruse, and one that only a mage or a witch could have carried off. No-one else can do magic, is it not so?” The accent was Orlesian; Leliana listened closely, deconstructing the syllables for the region. Not that it mattered; the speaker would be in Fort Drakon by nightfall, together with everyone else she’d discovered mongering this particular rumour over the past two days. Most of them would be innocent of serious ill-intent, merely passing along what they themselves had heard, but that would not save them. Anyone foolish enough to speak such treason could expect to find themselves on the gallows, once any and all information had been drawn from them.

I only need one, thought the bard. Just one who knows from where this story really came. When Eamon told them of the rumours spreading like wildfire, Alistair had been furious – his friends knowing full well why, even if his Chancellor didn’t. After all their work and effort, for Maddy to be named a mage was a catastrophe. Especially now, with the lyrium trade stolen from under the Divine’s nose and their plans for the Chantry. Any rumour that the Queen was a mage would undermine Alistair’s position; make him appear self-interested at best, and at worst… At worst he would be seen as the rumour said him to be: the thrall of a witch or a maleficar. It was ridiculous, of course, as Anders had hastened to point out - Maddy couldn’t control him all the way from West Hill. But that wouldn’t prevent the nobles from losing faith in their King and turning their backs on his proposal.

When the speaker finished his drink and arose to leave the tavern, Leliana followed. All of the guard were on alert; she need only tip them the wink and he would be quietly taken into custody. Meanwhile, she would make her way further into town, away from the sea breezes and stench of rotting fish; she’d find another tavern, another tankard of vile brew to sip from, and another raucous song in which to seek the same motif.

-oOo-

“Welcome to West Hill, Your Majesty.” Arl Wulff, a gruff grey-beard with lines bitten deeply into his face, met the Queen’s cavalcade on the approach to the town. He bent over Maddy’s hand from the saddle, before turning his horse to ride beside her. Kallian shifted her own position to accommodate him, her eyes flicking over his person, looking for weapons. They weren’t expecting trouble from the Arl, but it paid to be careful around noble shem.

It paid to be careful, full-stop, at the moment.    After crossing the river, and re-supplying in that weird little village, they had cut north-east cross-country. Not that the view here was anything to write home about; signs of war and Blight were gouged into the landscape. It had upset Maddy, but not as much as it used to; familiarity was hardening her to… whatever it was she felt from the trees and plants. Kalli had no idea what that was, and hadn’t much tried to figure it out; it was enough for her to know that it upset her employer and therefore made her more vulnerable to attack at certain times.

Once their horses clattered into town, following the road that wound up towards the Arl’s fortress, it became apparent that the strange reactions Zev had spotted yesterday morning had not been an isolated incident. The townsfolk turned out en masse to view their sovereign’s foreign wife, the majority cheering and waving as one would expect at the passage of such an exalted figure. There was also an occasional cry in praise of Blessed Andraste, or a reference to Maddy as the Saviour or Chosen. These certainly made the Queen uncomfortable, but. since Redcliffe, she had become a little more accustomed to them. What she was certainly not accustomed to - and what made both Kallian and Zevran bristle and turn sharply, trying to spot the culprit – were shouts of ‘mage’ or even ‘maleficar’, the latter in particular causing a scuffle as the Queen’s supporters leapt to her defence.

“Ignore them, Your Majesty, let’s just get to refuge.” Arl Wulff seemed unsurprised by the mixed responses, stiff-backed certainly, but not outraged. It confused Kallian; she figured any of the nobles would call out the guard in a second at such talk, dragging off the offenders for, at the minimum, a serious kicking.

Philippe certainly looked angry, as did Cedric. Maddy too was scowling, reluctant to be ushered away to safety, but it was her brother who protested.

“You are going to allow this, seigneur? The honour of your Queen, my sister, is at stake.”

The Arl shot a quick look at him under heavy brows. “Please, Your Highness, let’s discuss it once we reach the castle.”

Philippe’s mouth, usually set in lines of humour and mockery, tightened in annoyance, but it was to Zevran he looked for guidance. Kalli saw the assassin shake his head slightly, his wary amber eyes on the Arl, and the Queen’s brother capitulated.

When their reins had been handed to grooms, the Arl led the way into a shabby, comfortable receiving room, without offering them the opportunity to wash or to change first. The instant the door closed he swung around to face where Maddy stood, anger apparent in her face. She opened her mouth to speak, but he beat her to it, his voice harsh and abrupt.

“Is it true you can heal the land?”

“Of course she bloody can.” The words were loud, echoing around the room, and it took Kalli a moment to realise that she was the one who had spoken. Arl Wulff’s eyes flicked over her dismissively, just like nobles always had, before returning to Maddy.

“Sieur Kallian is correct and, as always, delightfully succinct.” Philippe’s voice was suave, restrained, with just a tiny emphasis on her title. “My sister has been blessed with many successes and no failures, thus far.” There was a tiny pause before he continued, in exactly the same smooth tone of voice. “And I take leave to tell you, siegneur, that your manners are atrocious.”

The Arl passed a shaking hand over his face and, for the first time, Kalli saw how haggard he looked. “My apologies, Your Majesty, Your Highness, I’ve been on tenterhooks for days awaiting your arrival. I don’t think you realise how wound up the townsfolk are, everyone is desperate. If you can’t help us…” He swallowed, his mouth set in hard lines. “If you can’t help us, then most people here will starve next year. Maker help me, I can’t blame them for listening to rumour and gossip; they are terrified, and rightly so.”

The anger had drained from Maddy’s face during this speech; in fact all of their party appeared to have relaxed slightly. The Queen held out her hands to the Arl who, after a moment’s hesitation, took them.

“Do not worry, Arl Wulff, I will do whatever I can to help.” Reassurance rang in every syllable, together with all the warmth that had softened Kallian to her mistress. “I can only do a little right now - you and I are both needed in Denerim, and I will explain to you why once we have washed and eaten – but I promise that I will prove to you, and your people, that West Hill can be reclaimed.”

He looked searchingly into her eyes, seeming to see something that he needed. The old Arl bowed over Maddy’s hand, kissing her fingers with old-fashioned elegance.

As the Arl straightened, reaching for the bell pull to summon servants to see them to their rooms, Zevran spoke for the first time.

“I would like to hear more about these… rumours, if I may remain behind and speak with you?” It was a credit to the Antivan’s sheer confident presence that the old-school nobleman didn’t dismiss him on account of his pointed ears, but instead nodded agreement. 

I really have to work out how he does that, thought Kallian.

 

-oOo-

“Maker’s blessings upon you, Warden.”

Anders’ initial scowl dissolved into a cautious nod as he realised exactly which combination of hated purple, yellow and steel-grey metal he’d cannoned into near the entrance to the palace: Ser Bryant, last seen in Gwaren, and committed to the King’s cause.

“You got the letter?” Alistair had sent notes to several of his Templar converts before he left Orzammar, inviting them to join him in Denerim. “They let you come?”

“I, um-” The burly Templar flushed slightly under his deep tan. “I told the Revered Mother that I was summoned to Denerim. She assumed that I meant at the command of the Grand Cleric, and I… allowed her to think so.”

Admiration brightened Anders’ eye; neat escapes never failed to please him. “Nice. Best get you under cover though; the Loony One is coming here today and it won’t do for her to see you.” He tried to bustle the holy knight further into the palace, failed, and finally hooked a finger under an armour strap and pulled.

“The-?” Ser Bryant choked as he began to move, dragged along by that insistent hand. “You mean Grand Cleric Leanna? Is it really necessary to be so rude?”

“Necessary? No. Fun? Definitely. But mainly I find that calling her names lets off just enough steam to prevent me from storming over to the Cathedral and turning her into a greasy puddle.” Anders stopped walking, causing Ser Bryant to crash into him. He turned and waved a minatory finger at the bigger man. “And don’t think for one second that I couldn’t. Anyway, once the King tells you everything that’s happened I’m betting you’ll be happy to hold my hat while I do it.” Once again they set off, plunging deeper into the palace, away from prying eyes that might note this Templar - whom Alistair had earmarked to be the next Knight Commander of the Circle - and wonder at his presence.

-oOo-

Milking Arl Wulff for information on the Queen’s local reputation took longer than Zevran anticipated. It was not that there was a particularly large amount of information available. A significant amount of time was spent fielding the nobleman’s own questions: about Maddy and Philippe, and especially their relationship with their elder sister on the Imperial throne; about Alistair and his reasons for returning to Denerim in such a hurry, leaving behind his Queen; and repeatedly returning to seek assurances as to whether Maddy could indeed heal his Blighted lands.

On the last one, at least, Zevran was happy to indulge him; using it as a way to slip past any other questions he didn’t fancy answering.   The information he extracted in return held significant interest, and it was in a thoughtful mood that he turned his steps to his room in order to bathe and change. It would, perhaps, be too much to say that he was abstracted; the assassin within never really slept. However, he was sufficiently engaged to be taken by surprise when he entered his bedchamber to find a somewhat forlorn-looking figure seated on the edge of his bed, clutching a folded piece of parchment which bore a broken, and extremely recognisable, seal.

Zevran froze in the doorway, unwilling to hear this news. The last month or more, since they left Redcliffe, had been good, better than any other period of his life, despite his unusual state of celibacy. He was loathe to see that fragile state of affairs shattered, and the fragments of wax bearing the Imperial seal of Orlais did not bode well. Neither did Philippe’s eyes, when he raised them, their vivid blue dulled by despair. Zevran closed the door softly and moved to sit in a chair across from his Prince. He desperately wanted to help, but had no idea how; comfort was something that happened to other people. Consequently, when he spoke, his voice was cool, remote, and inwardly he winced to hear it.

“Well, mio principe, are your nuptials imminent?”

Long, slim fingers clenched tightly on thick, expensive paper. “It would seem so.” Phiippe’s soft voice was as measured as always, but the modulation was wrong, the mellow note missing, displaying the strain he was under. “My dear sister Celene informs me that, as I have expressed no preference of my own, she has found a bride for me: an Antivan princess.”

“Hmm, is that so? You have her name?” The embossed sheet was passed over and Zevran scanned through the few lines. “Principessa Luciana di Treviso. Ah, yes. You, know, I am amazed she still lives; most of her house were culled by the Crows a few years back, a bloody affair as her brother had his own cell. Unfortunately for him, his cousin inherited a much larger cell and had a fancy to call the Palazzo di Treviso his own. The sister must have worked hard to ingratiate herself with her dear cousin, in order to survive.” Zevran carefully refolded the paper, the crackle of parchment loud in the excruciating silence. In the end, he offered the only comfort he knew. “Say but one little word, caro mio, and she will trouble you no more.”

His offer seemed to take a moment to sink in, before Philippe’s gaze focussed sharply. “You-” He shuddered. “No.” A tiny flash of his usual humour peeped through. “Unless, of course, you are offering to rid me of Celene?”

“A rather difficult assignment, that.” The defeated slump of Philippe’s shoulders was making Zev’s chest hurt. He wanted to take the world apart to protect this gentle, chivalrous man who had treated him with such respect and devotion. No-one had ever behaved so towards the assassin; even Melissa, who had cared for him in her own way, had not treated him so. “But, I will try if you wish me to.”

As every instinct in his body was screaming that such an attempt was a death sentence, this offer was far greater than his Prince could ever know, but Philippe’s head was shaking from side to side, dismissing the notion. “No, mon amour, I have no desire to see your head on a pike over the battlements of the Imperial palace.”

“Caro, this is not such a bad match. The Principessa will not be upset by your preferences, provided she is treated with the respect an Antivan lady is entitled to. In my country, such things are understood and accepted, even more so than in Orlais.” Zevran arose from his chair, moving to stand before where Philippe sat. “There is no further need for you to deny yourself, mio principe.”   His hand ran gently, caressingly, over the auburn hair of the man looking up at him. “No need to deny either of us.”

Philippe grasped Zevran’s other hand, pulling him down to sit beside him. He slipped a hand around the assassin’s waist, squeezing affectionately. “It has never been for the sake of an unknown betrothed that I have held back, my dear one, but for you. As I said before, I will not make you the whore of royalty.”

Last time this had been said, it had made Zevran furious. The time they had spent together since had brought him to understand that it was respect for him that made Philippe think this way. It was frustrating, but he understood it. This did not, for one second, prevent him from attempting to find a way around it. “Ah, but consider: an Antivan Princess will see no shame in it. The addition of a fully-trained Crow to her household, in any capacity, shall bestow a cachet upon you both, improving the standing of your house. I will not be your whore in her eyes, but a badge of your perspicacity and cleverness.” 

While this wily speech broke down his Prince’s resistance, nimble fingers dragged over his scalp, skilfully removing the clasp that held back Philippe’s hair and stroking through it. Closed eyes and softened mouth caused by this action were too tempting to Zevran; he leant in enough to kiss the corner of that enticing mouth. Kissing was one of the things that Philippe’s stringent standards allowed, but this was the first time Zevran had managed to corner him in a bedroom.  So, when his Prince turned into the kiss, Zev made the best of this opportunity, using the hand he had entangled in thick hair to draw them closer together into a relaxed posture that could easily… oh, so easily, result in them lying back on the bed.

As always, Philippe kissed him with a level of warmth and tenderness he had never before known, wrapping his arms around the assassin in a caring cocoon. To be held and kissed so was like a drug to Zevran; prior to sampling it, he had no need of it, but now he could not get enough of the sensation. He retained just enough presence of mind to slip his spare hand into the small of Philippe’s back, using it to mould them together as they slowly slipped into a supine position.

The heat and weight of the other man’s body against him caused a flare of passion to erupt in Zevran; passion that had been banked down to a smouldering ember during the longest period of celibacy in his adult life. His senses were flooded with information: the scent of Philippe’s soap and cologne, the taste of his mouth, the weight of his thigh. And, as he pressed a touch closer, a ridge of heat that informed him that he was not the only one affected. It was Philippe who broke the kiss, dipping his head to trail moist warmth over Zev’s throat while-

The timid knock on Zevran’s door may as well have been a thunderclap, considering the effect it had. Philippe froze instantly, and almost immediately withdrew, dreamy, lust-filled eyes coming back into sharp focus. Zevran let rip with a string of Antivan curses, striding to the door and flinging it open in such a way as to terrify the pair of serving maids carrying buckets from which steam curled upwards.

"Che cazzo vuoi?" he snarled, far too infuriated for either courtesy or the Common language.

“Y-your bath water, ser,” stammered one of them, wide-eyed. Zev nodded curtly and allowed them to enter, knowing that the damage was done, the opportunity lost beyond recapture. Philippe was already on his feet, smoothing his doublet and preparing to leave.

Zevran seized his arm as he approached the door, pulling him close enough to murmur in his ear. “Later, mio principe, after dinner, yes?”

Even while asking the question, Philippe’s body language was informing him of the answer. The moment of passion has passed, and cooler counsel was already prevailing. “It would not be wise, mon coeur, I- I am not myself today.”

This was, in Zevran’s opinion, exactly why today was the best of all possible days for such an assignation. Only once the door closed behind his Prince did he give vent to his frustrated feelings, disregarding the presence of the maids slopping water into the stone bath.

“Mannaggia!”

-oOo-

Alistair gripped the arms of his ornate throne, and took a deep breath. The woman walking towards him had poisoned her own Templars, of whom he could, so easily, have been one. She had mutilated and publicly burned apostates in his own capital city. She had organised the wholesale reduction of dozens of talented and innocent mages to the level of domesticated animals.

She also, he reminded himself, represented an organisation which, in open warfare, could roll over his army like it didn’t exist. This would be, perhaps, the trickiest conversation of his life, walking a fine line between what he had done, and must inform her of, and what he planned, which must be kept quiet for as long as possible.

Be calm, Alistair. Keep a cool head.

Grand Cleric Leanna came to a halt before him, flanked by two priestesses. Outside the doors of the audience chamber stood half a dozen Templars, refused admittance by an apologetic but impassive member of the King’s Own. From what little Alistair had heard of the altercation from where he sat, it sounded as though the Grand Cleric wasn’t very happy about it. That had brightened his day significantly.

“Your Majesty.” The minimal dip she offered him in lieu of a bow was as discourteous as the brevity of her greeting. “Why are my Templars being excluded? Are your guards trying to insult the Chantry?”

Alistair deliberately drew out the moment in which he looked her over before answering, noting that one of her priestesses flushed in embarrassment and began a much deeper bow of her own, cut off short when the eyes of her superior flicked her way.

“Perhaps you have forgotten, Your Eminence, that four of your Templars made an attempt upon the lives of myself and my Queen in the Brecilian Forest.” Alistair took a breath and went for the throat. “Therefore, you will have to forgive me if I choose not to expose my person to any more of your drug-crazed madmen.”

Entertaining though it was to see the Grand Cleric’s eyes bulge, widening in shock at the revelation that the King knew one of her secrets, Alistair pressed on, giving her no time to protest.

“That is, in fact, the reason I summoned you here today.   Were you aware that disseminating polluted lyrium is perceived by the dwarves to be an insult to their Ancestors?”

Despite being quite obviously caught on the hop, Leanna’s chin came up proudly at this. “I serve Divine Andraste; I have no reason to be concerned with their heretical faith.”

Alistair was beginning to enjoy himself. “If you had even the faintest understanding of dwarven life, then you would be. You see, Your Eminence, the dwarves perceive lyrium as a gift to them from the Stone, and from the Ancestors who have returned to it. They chose, a thousand years ago, to share that gift with the Chantry in return for certain… concessions.” Alistair didn’t need Leliana’s subtle nudge to prevent him from expanding on what those concessions were. He had mentioned it only so that his personal bard’s trained eye could attempt to ascertain whether the Grand Cleric knew the dubious secrets surrounding that deal. “When you chose, for some outlandish reason, to cut your lyrium with deathroot, you broke that ancient contract. Bhelen will, by now, have written to the Divine to inform her that no further deliveries of lyrium will be made to the Chantry.”

“What?” It seemed likely that Leanna had intended to shout, but what came out was a disbelieving croak. Gathering fury puffed her up like a frog. “They cannot do that. Lyrium must be controlled by the Chantry, it’s the law.”

“Oh?” Alistair could feel himself relaxing, inordinately entertained by her responses. He reminded himself severely that this woman was dangerous. “Whose law?”

The glare she favoured him with was highly inappropriate given his rank. “Considering your upbringing, Sire, I feel sure you know the answer to that perfectly well. The Maker’s law, as given to us by Holy Andraste.”

“You see, the thing is,” began Alistair, his tone dripping with insincere apology, “I don’t think the dwarves care about Holy Andraste. Anyway,” he continued briskly, “I saw the contracts; they were drawn up by Kordillus Drakon and Paragon Garal after the foundation of the Chantry. Andraste was long gone by that point.”

Both supporting priestesses gasped at this, while the Grand Cleric sputtered that Andraste remained with us always. Alistair cut her protestations off, before she could catch up enough to start asking questions. 

“Be that as it may, Your Eminence, the fact is that Orzammar will no longer be providing the Chantry with lyrium. I think, before too long, you are going to be finding that a little… awkward, are you not? Not merely here, but all across Thedas.”

Her mouth worked, arrogance and fury battling against her clear knowledge of the vulnerable position she had been left in. Alistair wondered how the Divine would take it when she heard what Grand Cleric Leanna had wrought. He wondered even more whether the Divine had been privy to her schemes. Eventually, Leanna permitted a single word to fall reluctantly from her lips.

“Yes.”

“Yes, indeed. Therefore, you will no doubt be delighted to hear that there is now a new lyrium contract between Orzammar and Ferelden.” Alistair beamed into her face of utter shock. “I knew you’d be pleased. Think how disastrous it would have been if King Bhelen had chosen to accept the bid of a non-Andrastian country. Imagine, for example, having to apply to the Qunari to purchase all the lyrium the Chantry requires.”

“You- I-”

Alistair had never seen the Grand Cleric speechless before. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Anders enjoying the spectacle just as much as he was. Eamon stepped smoothly into the breach, withdrawing from his sleeve a list of demands they had drawn up.

“Your Eminence, the Crown has no desire to interrupt the smooth supply of lyrium, however there are a number of matters on which we have some concerns, particularly regarding the treatment of our subjects with magical ability. You may remember our discussion regarding public executions; this subject must now be re-addressed. Also, we have received some alarming intelligence regarding the situation in the Circle Tower.”

Alistair sat back to watch his Chancellor press his advantage with consummate political skill, and tried really hard not to smile too openly.

Bugger it, I’ve earned this.

He gave Loopy Leanna a wide grin.

-oOo-

 

 

Antivan translations:

Che cazzo vuoi? What the fuck do you want?

Mannaggia!   A generic expression of frustration; often translated as damn, but has no direct translation.