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peopleofthedas2011-04-14 10:17 pm
Trouble & Strife: Chapter Fifty Three
Much love as always 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 Fifty Three
Characters: today we have Alistair, Maddy, Zevran, Teagan, Leliana, Eamon, Empress Celene, Brother Guido and a chorus of Antivan Crows.
Rating: T
This chapter: Celene finds out that Ferelden has stolen the lyrium trade from under her Imperial nose, Alistair meets with the Divine Legate, and Maddy tries to intervene between Zev and Philippe. Meantime, Zev makes a serious miscalculation.
I know this is a day early, but I'm down in the dumps for no good reason, so I thought nothing would cheer me up more than allowing you lovely lot to sharpen your pitchforks and light those torches. And I promise you, with a chapter ending like this one, you're gonna. No peeking at the last page, now :)
-oOo-
Their campfire was small and protected, its smoke not more than a few yards distant. A map, spread out on a rock, was marked with the route and every possible overnight campsite of the royal procession. The choices were few: with the addition of both the Arl’s and the Teyrn’s guard and servants, Queen Madeleina’s entourage was now too large to camp anywhere except very specific locations.
The sheer size of said entourage added complexity to their task. This was unfortunate, but unavoidable; once the royal party reached the safety of Denerim, the mark would become much more difficult to reach. Much worse, was the realization of exactly who stood close to their target.
Zevran Arainai.
Il Rinnegato, the Renegade, who according to rumour had not only killed every Crow who had taken his contract, but had also systematically destroyed entire cells as a warning to others. None of the older Crow Masters would touch his contract now; instead they had quietly increased their own powerbases from the destruction of their less cautious rivals, and closed ranks. Zevran Arainai should not exist, and so they pretended that he did not. The contract stood, as it must, until his corpse rotted on the ground. If others wished to pick it up, then they may. It was a hot potato, and only the young, the foolish or the desperate risked burnt fingers.
This cell was none of the above, but neither were they strong enough - in the opinion of the youngest of their number – to succeed against such an old hand on his own ground, and the discovery that this was the location in which he’d gone to ground gave them pause. They were four in total: Jacinta, tough and wiry, the oldest of them by a few years and those years gave her an edge on experience; Gianluca, who bore heavy scarring around his left eye, a permanent reminder of the messy political fracas that had thinned their ranks some years ago; Bianca, aptly named for her snowy hair and translucent skin, a deceptively fragile elven beauty, until one came close enough to see her cold emotionless eyes; and Xavier, the youngest by far, who had only just completed his training when the strength of their House had been cut out from under them. He’d survived by a fluke, missing most of the fighting, and ever since had wished desperately that he’d remained an apprentice just a little longer. Just a few precious weeks would have left him free to seek another Master, to seek a stronger House. Instead of which the die had been cast that fateful day, and he was tarred with the same brush as the rest. The nobile House to which his cell was sworn was weakened almost to the point of extinction; how their padrona had survived so long was a mystery.
Plans were considered and discarded. An ambush on the road? Impossible, given the sheer number of troops; even if they hired the biggest mercenary band available, their royal mark would be too well protected. Infiltration? With so many servants milling around, one extra would hardly be noticed. But with Il Rinnegato’s watchful eyes in camp, it was too risky. Of the four of them, only Xavier could be certain that Zevran did not know his face, young as he had been when the former Crow left for his final mission. Jacinta had no hesitation in stating her views on that plan.
“This little one, to carry out the contract alone?” She snorted scornfully. “I do not think so.”
Xavier swallowed his resentment. He was well trained, but it could not be denied that he lacked experience, and a royal kill was never simple. “A diversion then; much easier to arrange one from inside the camp, no?”
Hard grey eyes stared into his, while her long fingers tapped restlessly on the map. Eventually, she nodded. “A diversion, buono, we can work with that.”
-oOo-
The hastily written note in the Divine’s own hand reached Empress Celene at Halamshiral, mere hours from the busy dwarven trading station which had grown up around the Lyrium Run, the tunnel into Orzammar which had disgorged boxes of lyrium to the Orlesian Chantry for hundreds of years.
She had to read it twice before her mind would accept the truth of what she was seeing.
Ferelden, Ferelden to hold the lyrium trade? The idea was ludicrous, they couldn’t afford it. Her idiot brother-in-law had overreached himself; his pitiful little nation would be bankrupted before the trade could begin to bear fruit. Only two nations in Thedas, other than Tevinter, had sufficient wealth to back him: one was Orlais, and although she would have welcomed an approach in this matter – one which gave Orlais the lion’s share, naturally – none had been forthcoming. The other was Antiva; the merchant banks there would no doubt be delighted to have their fingers in this pie, at a substantial rate of interest. Nothing in the considerable intelligence that crossed her desk had suggested that any such contact had been initiated, however.
The idea that Orzammar might have provided a line of credit quite simply failed to occur to her; in the list of nations which ticked across her mind, considered and discarded, only those with land and borders registered.
Celene whiled away the long carriage ride back to Val Royeaux by turning over schemes for the future. Her initial furious reaction – to invade, to bring Ferelden together with its lucrative contract under her heel – was discarded. It was unsubtle and unnecessary; she had perceived nothing in King Alistair to suggest that he was capable of making a success of this venture. The state of Ferelden’s fortunes was precarious; the Blight had hit them, and only them, leaving them even poorer than usual. A waiting game, one year, perhaps two, would bring home the reality of administering such a vast trade. She resolved to bolster her intelligence gathering in the Ferelden court, to ensure that the information she received was thorough and complete. Orlais would not be the only nation watching Ferelden closely; when the crisis point came she must be swift to act.
A second rude shock awaited her in Val Royeaux.
“I fail to understand you.” In the years since her ascension to the throne, Celene could not recall a single occasion on which the Divine had gainsaid her. It was inconceivable that she would begin now, with the Chantry in such a delicate position. “This matter was agreed between us months ago.”
“I am sorry, Your Majesty, but the Chantry cannot assist you in this, after all. To seize the Queen of Ferelden on charges of magery would not be in our interests at this time.”
“This is about the lyrium?” Celene could accept that the Divine was in a difficult position; thousands of Templars across half a dozen nations relied upon the Chantry to provide their daily dose. “Ferelden will not hold the trade for long, I assure you.”
“Not only that, Your Majesty.” The Divine squirmed in her seat while the Empress waited on her response. “King Alistair has intimated that he knows about… the shipments.”
“I see.” No paper trail connected the Imperial Throne to the provision of Tranquil to Orzammar. It had done, under her less cautious predecessors, but she had ensured all evidence was destroyed years ago. Culling the Alienage was a necessity; they bred like rabbits and were less useful. Celene made a mental note to speak to the Tevinter ambassador about an alternative arrangement. “He’s threatened you with exposure? What possible advantage could he find in doing so?”
“Your Majesty, the news out of Ferelden is troubling to me. I have sent a Divine Legate there, one Brother Guido, who is perhaps known to you.” Celene nodded acknowledgement; the Antivan was one of the most subtle minds in the Chantry and the only male to have achieved his rank. “The first of his dispatches arrived this morning. The intelligence he has gathered suggests that King Alistair no longer recognises the authority of the Chantry. He intends to take the Ferelden chantry under his own protection, and has called a Landsmeet to convince his nobles to support him in this heretical endeavour.”
A lesser woman would have gawked in shock; Celene controlled herself, but with an effort. Her first thought was, what exactly has the Chantry done to provoke such a weak man to such an extreme response? She could certainly see the Divine’s problem, in the face of this news; between his control of the lyrium trade, and holding their guilty secret in his fist, King Alistair’s position was far, far stronger than any had ever held against the Chantry. It was time to ensure that Imperial Orlais was positioned at a safe distance from such an inflammatory situation.
“I sincerely hope then, for your sake, that Brother Guido is as good as he is reported to be.” Her words were cool and dismissive. Orlais would not be involved; they would wait this situation out and see if anything may be gleaned from the wreckage.
-oOo-
“You wanted to see me, regina mia?” With Teyrn Cousland and Arl Wulff dominating her time and attention, Zevran had been surprised to receive a summons to the royal marquee. Maddy was tiring more easily as her pregnancy progressed, and rarely wanted to spend time with anyone but Kallian after the supper hour.
“I do.” The petite Queen seemed agitated, uncomfortable, making Zevran more curious than ever. “Have a seat, and some wine, Zevran; I need to talk to you.”
Zev accepted both the seat and the wine, pouring for himself from the carafe on the table. He sat at his ease, waiting for his hostess to enlighten him.
Maddy took the seat opposite from his, at the long table used for both meals and councils. Having got him here she seemed reluctant to speak, twisting her hands together and frowning. When she finally looked up at him, her green eyes were apologetic.
“Please, forgive me for being… intrusive, but can you tell me the truth of what lies between yourself and my brother?”
Whatever Zevran had been expecting it was not this. His fingers tensed around the stem of the metal goblet, but he kept his voice calm. “And how should I answer that? I have first to ask myself why it is that you are asking me, and not tuo fratello.”
“I have asked him, and all I get is a mouthful of… of duty.” Rain began to drum on the fabric of the tent and there were shouts outside from servants rushing for cover. “I’m worried about him, Zevran. He’s going to leave us, go back to Orlais and marry some Antivan princess who’ll make him miserable.” He told himself that it was only the sight of Maddy’s unhappy little face that clenched his heart at these words. “I want to help him and I don’t know how. So, I’m asking you, because I think perhaps you care for Philippe more than you admit. How can we help him?”
Zev took a swift drink from the goblet, setting it deliberately on the table. “I have offered to help him in the only way I can. He refused.”
“You offered to go with him? To Ghislain?” Her question was eager and when he blinked at her in surprise, she rushed on. “It is what he needs, I know it, to let go of his scruples and take you with him. It’s making him so desperately unhappy and I can’t bear it.”
“No, regina mia.” He kept his voice gentle, moved by her honest distress, despite the knife that twisted in his chest. Maddy’s words should not have come as a surprise. Ever since the Empress’ letter arrived at West Hill, Philippe had been remote, withdrawn from him; there had been no intimacy between them. He’s going back to Orlais, back to his life. There is no place for me there. “I offered to kill Principessa Luciana, and your sister Celene too, if that was what he desired.” She recoiled slightly, flinching away from the table between them and he smirked mirthlessly. “You must recall, Madeleina, that this is what I am; an assassin, a killer. It is all I have to offer.”
“I know.” Her voice was small, but her chin stuck out determinedly. “But my brother loves you, and I want him to be happy. I do not care about anything else.”
“This is foolishness. What does it matter what you want and what you care for?” She was an unworthy victim for his anger and he knew it, but she had invited it and the wounded beast within snarled in pain to hear her say he loves you. “Your brother is an Imperial Prince and he knows his place and his duty, it seems. What you want, or what I want is irrelevant. You think I’m fit to be near him? You think that I’m safe? Take your concerns for his welfare elsewhere, but leave me out of it. There is no place in this for such as me.” The rain was coming down hard now, the noise on the tent drowning any protest she might make. Zevran stood quickly, knowing he had already said too much, desperate to leave, to find a secret corner in which to lick his wounds.
You are a fool, Zevran. You knew he would go, for why should one such as he stay with one such as you?
-oOo-
“Andraste’s blessings upon you, Your Majesty.”
It was well-known, of course that, prior to taking the throne, Alistair Fitz-Theirin had been a Grey Warden and fought an Archdemon, but even so, the sheer scale of the Ferelden King was impressive. The hand he held out to Brother Guido was large and meaty, engulfing the Antivan’s slender fingers. His smile was open and genuine, albeit with a noticeable wary strain around the eyes. He demonstrated neither royal hauteur nor deference to the Legate’s holy standing, merely indicating a chair which faced his impressive desk.
Brother Guido took the offered seat, smoothing down his robes while the King, and the Arls of Denerim and Redcliffe, seated themselves also. It was interesting that his interview was taking place in the King’s study, rather than the main audience chamber, as the Grand Cleric’s had. With the Ferelden love of informality, he hoped this boded well for their discussion.
“Brother… Guido, is it not?” The Brother kept his face smooth as he inclined his head, although inwardly wincing at the King’s faux pas. Even a monarch should greet a Divine Legate properly. “You come from Val Royeaux at the behest of the Divine, I understand. Tell me then, what is it you desire from Ferelden?”
A direct approach, perfectly in tune with what he had read and heard about this young King. Certainly this was not the mind behind the bold plans that threatened to disrupt harmony between Chantry and the Ferelden State. Arl Eamon, perhaps, who was well known for his subtlety. “Your letter came as a great surprise to Her Holiness, Sire. Ferelden has always been a good son of the Andrastian Chantry, and she wonders why you did not intercede on her behalf with the dwarves of Orzammar. Surely you are aware how necessary it is that the Chantry controls this dangerous substance?”
The King’s grin was boyish, swift and unexpected. “Having trained as a Templar, I certainly understand how necessary the Chantry finds lyrium.” The direct thrust made even the imperturbable Legate blink. There was to be no dance of words it seemed. “This makes it all the more disturbing when I discover that the Chantry has been poisoning the supply, especially when it causes drug-crazed Templars to offer violence to my person.”
Old news, intended to derail the discussion, to put him on the defensive. “I have spoken with the Grand Cleric about this. They are yours to do with as you wish, Your Majesty. Make an example of them, if that is your desire.”
King Alistair looked somewhat taken aback and then rallied. “I’d much prefer to see the one who poisoned them brought to justice. I’m not the only one who has suffered at the hands of those rampaging lunatics.”
Arl Eamon stepped in, smoothly bringing the discussion back down into diplomatic channels. “What His Majesty means to say is that we are very concerned about the role Grand Cleric Leanna may have played in this matter. As you no doubt know, we alerted the Divine some time ago to the tensions which arose as a result of her actions, and asked for her to be replaced.”
“If that is what is required to bring harmony, then consider it done.” Brother Guido’s flat response brought silence, which he took advantage of. “King Alistair, my lords, it is not my wish to cause further difficulties. Errors have been made, and we of the Chantry are keen to correct them. We do not wish there to be bad blood between us; Ferelden is a devout nation, and its people require a sympathetic Chantry. But I need you to see how vital it is that the Chantry be seen to control the lyrium trade. People fear mages, and lyrium is the substance which fuels their magic. For it to lie in secular control is unacceptable; surely you see that.”
“Then you should have taken better care of it.” The King’s massive arms were folded across his chest, putting considerable strain on fine tailoring. There was a militant gleam in his eye that suggested the Legate’s arguments were not making the impact he’d hoped. “Your contract with Orzammar is broken; King Bhelen will not deal with you again.”
“But you could, King Alistair, for the good of all.” Brother Guido injected into his voice all the persuasion he could muster. “I see why you took on this burden, and your actions were commendable, but I can already perceive how much strain it puts upon your country’s finances. Allow the Chantry to assist you in this, allow us to administer the lyrium trade as we always have, let the world see that the status quo is not being threatened.”
“Are you suggesting that we act as a front for the Chantry?” Arl Teagan spoke for the first time, an edge of indignation in his voice. “After everything that’s happened here?”
“Culprits can be punished, normality can be re-instated. The faithful need to feel secure, and your quarrel is not with the Divine.”
“There’s a whole batch of Tranquil mages in the Circle Tower for whom ‘normality’ cannot be re-instated.” Anger vibrated through the King’s voice. “Do you have anything to say about that?”
Brother Guido picked his words carefully. Such concern for a parcel of mages… it was unheard of in a monarch. This King Alistair clearly allowed his heart to rule his head, a dangerous thing in a ruler. “Incidents in Circle Towers are, by necessity, kept quiet in order to avoid alarming the populace. If the Knight Commander claims that the mages were a threat, then both you and I must accept that. They are his charges and it is his decision.”
The King’s hard hazel stare under lowered brows was a shade unnerving. In any civilized country, open violence in the council chamber was considered vulgar, but these Fereldans… It was a relief when King Alistair finally spoke again, his voice soft and entirely at odds with his demeanour.
“Was there anything else you wished to say to us today, Brother?”
“It saddens us to see dissension between the Chantry and such a devout nation, my son.” If this backwater monarch insisted on using such an insulting title for a Holy Legate, then the informality could be used to demonstrate the might of the Chantry. “We desire nothing more than to see Ferelden safe and secure in Andraste’s embrace once more.” This glancing reference was as close as he dared come to the central issue: the potential for Ferelden to secede from the control of the Divine. “If you permit it, we will work with you to bring that happy conclusion.”
King Alistair nodded slowly. “We will consider your words.” It seemed unlikely he would; body language suggested that, of the three men, only Arl Eamon was giving the notion any serious consideration.
“That is all I ask, Sire.” That, and enough time before the Landsmeet to sway sufficient nobles to the Chantry’s cause.
-oOo-
Once the Legate had been bowed out, Alistair ruffled his hair, glad to be freed from constraint. “Leliana?” The bard slipped out from a curtained embrasure. “What do you think?”
She pursed her lips, wide blue eyes thoughtful. “That is a dangerous man, Alistair. He is watchful, too watchful to be untrained. The offer on the lyrium is a genuine one, I think. They will lose too much face, once it becomes known that lyrium was not a divine right, but a mere trade contract.”
“If I didn’t have three years credit with Bhelen, I might have been forced to take it, or cut another country in on the deal. Thank the Maker I have that freedom, at least.”
“I would urge you to consider his offer, Alistair. Making peace with the Chantry, even at this late stage, is still possible, and is an extremely desirable outcome.” At Eamon’s cool, calculating tone, Alistair swallowed a sudden burst of anger, reminding himself that the Arl had not seen what the rest of them had. “He is offering to remove those Clerics and Templars who have been a thorn in your side, to appoint ones who will behave in a more appropriate manner. Isn’t that what you’ve wanted, all along?”
“If he’d offered it three months ago, I’d have snatched his hand off. That was before I saw what the Chantry – not the Ferelden Chantry, but the whole Chantry - is capable of.” Alistair rubbed his face, wearily; he was tired of all this. “Having seen all those Tranquil slaves in the mines… how can I be sure that the Divine didn’t support Leanna in what she was doing? Oh sure, they’ll throw her to the wolves, now I have them by the short hairs, and they’ll promise to play nice… but Eamon, your son is in the Circle, we still don’t even know for certain that he’s safe. How can you even consider risking him further?”
Alistair could see the traces of softness in his Chancellor - the worry over Connor’s fate - in the deepening lines of his face, but his pale eyes remained distant. “I’m trying to do what’s best for Ferelden, Alistair. This Landsmeet… If you lose this vote then they will never perceive you in quite the same way again. You will lose the support of the nobles in a hundred minor ways. If you win it, then Maker help us all. I don’t even know if other Andrastian countries will continue to trade with us.”
“Of course they will, brother.” Teagan remained brisk and cheerful. “We hold the lyrium trade. They must either come to us or go to Tevinter. We’ll always be the sane choice.”
“Don’t give up on me now, Eamon.” Alistair hated the pleading note in his own voice, but he needed his Chancellor, now more than ever. “We can do this; we can make everyone safe, but I need you with me.”
“There is, perhaps, one other thing you need to consider.” Leliana’s lilting tone was apologetic. “I cannot be certain, but from what he said and how he acted, I think the Legate may know what you plan. ‘Safe and secure in Andraste’s embrace once more’ he said, did he not? It was a strange wording to use, n’est ce-pas?
“If so, we’ll need to take a closer look at the list of voters – make sure of as many floating votes as possible before he can get to them.” Teagan pulled a well-worn list from his sleeve. It was going to be another long afternoon. Alistair sighed resignedly, wishing Maddy would hurry up and get here. They couldn’t begin the Landsmeet until she arrived with Wulff and Fergus.
And he missed her terribly.
-oOo-
The teeming rain that had fallen for two days now was fortuitous, making the guard miserable and lax. Xavier waited until all except the night watch were abed before slipping out of the servants quarters into the quiet camp, to let loose the horses as planned - a diversion to draw attention away from the little group of tents surrounding the large royal marquee.
The task was absurdly simple, for even the most placid horse will bolt with a smear of ginger oil under his tail, and where one horse bolts, many more will follow. With the thunder of hooves and shouts of guards competing with the rain, Xavier melted back into the darkness, his task done. He needed now to escape the camp, return to the rendezvous point and await his fellows.
He was nearly at the edge of camp, ghosting through the night with all the skill he’d been taught, dodging puddles and mud that might suck at his feet and give away his position, when he saw a sight to make his heart stutter with fear.
Il Rinnegato was awake and alert.
He caught only a glint of blond hair and a glimpse of a darkened blade before the former Crow was upon him. The stiletto that flashed to his throat made only the smallest nick in the skin but it was enough. His legs gave out instantly, and efficient hands bound him.
“You think I would not spot such a one as you, eh?” The murmured voice sent chills through him. Whether the mission succeeded or failed Xavier knew he was now doomed. Stories were told of the condition in which Zevran left his victims, as warnings to other Crows. “Your little diversion will fail; the Queen’s tent is full of guards and our lovely Kallian is keen to kill some Corvi. When the rest of your cell is dead, we shall have a nice little talk, you and I.”
The Queen. He had one card left to play, one which may earn him the mercy of a swift death, if nothing else. Xavier grasped at that, the most any Crow hoped for, and squeezed out words through vocal chords already tightening with the paralysis poison.
“Not. her.” His voice was little more than a croak, but enough to bring Zevran’s efficient movements to a halt. “Him.”
The hands tying knots at Xavier’s wrists tightened with bone-crushing strength. The liquid voice beside him whispered a curse as foul as any he had ever heard. Then he was falling, released from that relentless grip to collapse motionless in the mud. There were running feet behind him, moving away swiftly, and then only the noises of the camp and the rain.
-oOo-
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Alistair Fitz-Theirin
Should be either "Fitzroy" or Fitz-Maric", if you're using that construction.
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What's that about your heart, dear?
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That works. The Fitz- construction was a Norman thing anyway.
The Zevran/Maddy conversation has me sitting at my desk sniffling.
On the other hand, I'm shaking my head, because while yes, Alistair has some politically savvy, sneaky people on his side, the opposition is seriously underestimating him.
Such concern for a parcel of mages… it was unheard of in a monarch. This King Alistair clearly allowed his heart to rule his head, a dangerous thing in a ruler.
This makes me grin, because it's so The Tudors, with the Vatican not understanding who they were dealing with in Henry. The Legate doesn't get Ferelden, or he'd know that what he sees as a weakness is Alistair's greatest strength.
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Hope your spirits pick up after working everyone into a froth.
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Now imagine if Philippe had taken Zev's offer to go and kill her for him...
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Other than that, this is Antiva we're talking about. It's impossible for our heroes to predict what influences are playing upon her, given the mess that is Antivan politics, and whether she would have her own reasons for stringently objecting to leaving her homeland.
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Assuming Zevran isn't... indignant... over Philippe writing him off.
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*sighs heavily and drops in half a dozen sovereigns*
;)
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I really love seeing Celene off-balance. It fills my heart with glee.
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I like squirming. Squirming is Good.
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That seems to be a theme around here.
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When will you post the next chapter?
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Those youngsters are wise to be wary of Zevran. He hasn't remained free of the Crows this long by being either stupid or...inefficient. I must say that I was surprised they were after Phillipe rather than Maddy, although perhaps I shouldn't have been. And no, getting rid of his prospective Antivan bride wouldn't have served the purpose at all.
I'm not sharpening any weapons or lighting any torches. I trust you. *beatific smile*
*snicker*
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No pitchforks or torches here though. You, and your writing, are far too awesome for such treatment. I hope you feel cheerier soon!
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*resolves to try harder to break her readers*
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The dangerous cliffhanger? It's a RELIEF compared to what I was anticipating.
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There's always next week...
Anyway, madame, I promised I'd only squeeze your heart, not break it.
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Also, all the underestimating of Fereldans in general and Alistair in particular those Chantry and Orlesian people like to indulge in fills me with SO MUCH GLEE. Do go on ignoring everything that doesn't fit your preconceptions, people, we know it usually works out well.
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Regarding the second paragraph tho':
It's true! If they hadn't underestimated Our Boy so often then they'd be sitting pretty by this stage of the fic.
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I was talking about Zevran and Philippe and my faith in how you'll resolve everything satisfactorily in the end, despite the fact that they both go around assuming stuff about each other and their situation without actually trying to talk about it. Using words. With each other and not any well-meaning third parties. As rational people should, guys! :D