peopleofthedas | The Best Laid Plans of Men and Rats (Menage 13)

Title: The Best Laid Plans of Men and Rats (Ménage 13)

Words: 1460

Rating: PG-13 (or R, depending on your tolerance) for a gory bit

Characters: Alistair/f!Surana (Philoméne) (/Zevran?) featuring Nathaniel, Anders, and Various Unsavories

Summary: Nate gains the confidence of the traitors’ club and learns how awesome bad guys are.

Nathaniel did his best to maintain a diffident air, rolling his eyes at the sight of the little farmhouse. “Is it really absolutely necessary that we do this in the middle of nowhere?” he asked. “Out in some hovel?”

Lord Guy snickered. “I know. Pathetic, isn’t it? But you see what the civilized remnants of your domain have been reduced to. It is not worth the risk to gather our allies in too public a place.”

That much, Nathaniel thought, was obvious. It had taken more than a week to convince Guy to trust him this far, even with him being a disenfranchised Howe and playing his best impersonation of the worst possible interpretation of his father –

Which, he had the week to realize all the way down into his bones, was all too easy. As much as he’d protested his father’s innocence and decency at first, once he decided to draw on the worst accusations for his role as a would-be traitor, he found more and more memories in his own head to work with. Petty resentments Rendon had carried for far longer than reason would seem to dictate. Small, almost imperceptible smiles at the emotional or physical pain of those he had decided were enemies. The ruthlessness, however subtly applied, in bending his servants and his children to his will.

All in his own blood. All the ugly things that had bubbled up to the surface when he had tried to corner Philoméne in her room in Amaranthine and force her... force himself upon.... And then she had told him that he wasn’t a monster, and Anders and Oghren had arrived before he could prove her wrong –

But it was counterproductive to let his mind run from the present moment into his reasons for self-hatred. Returning his focus to his surroundings, he held back from mentioning the archers watching him until one stepped into plain view. At him Nathaniel raised his brows, as if offended by him and unaware of his hidden fellows.

“Honestly, Guy. Am I a threat? Was I coming out to kill my only supporters, do you think?”

Guy grinned in apparent satisfaction. “This is all for your safety as well as ours, serrah. It’s a dangerous time to be a loyalist to the Howes. Even your sister, Maker preserve her, is safe in Amaranthine only because she is so willing to pander to the commoners for favor.” This last with a barely-concealed air of disgust.

“Ah. A thing I am, myself, unwilling to attempt.” He played up the disdain he felt rather than trying to hide it, in the hopes that Guy would assign it the wrong cause. Likewise, instead of my sister is the one saving grace of my family, he said “How our ancestors must wail at what we have come to.”

Even trying to convey sympathy, Guy’s smile tended to be wolfish. “All because of a man too weak to take the throne when it was within his grasp, and a knife-eared whore. It shocks every decent sensibility.”

As Guy waved the archer aside for them to pass, Nathaniel smirked away the sting of his Commander, the one person who considered him a redeemable human, being called a knife-eared whore. “Still,” he intoned, “they are miles away, I can safely assure you. Surely they are not so popular as to merit so much caution.”

“Do not count on that, Serrah Howe. Even before the failed poisoning – which I told the sodding Antivan wouldn’t work, by the way! You can’t assume the right people will drink a bottle of wine in Ferelden! – even before that, I’ve already had to make one would-be traitor go missing. She had every intention of revealing us to the pretender Arlessa.” Again, he ended on a snarl.

“Did you – ” Nathaniel paused as they entered the little farmhouse, where a small handful of sour-looking people of means were waiting for them. The two Nathaniel recognized were the women: Liza, whom his father had once tried to convince him to marry, and Esmerelle, an influential bann nearer Rendon’s own age. She was trouble, and probably the instigator.

After bowing to the room, Nathaniel resumed his question. “Did you actually meet the Arlessa?” He made sure to make a snide drawl of the last word.

“We did!” Esmerelle frowned, and Liza rolled her eyes. “The airs the little creature put on! She refused to even speak to us directly. She said it was because she was hoarse, but I didn’t believe her. And the way she clung to the side of that... man-beast who claimed to be Maric’s son. Completely indecent, the both of them.”

Liza snickered. “It’s a pity, isn’t it, that the last thing to survive of Maric’s legacy is a fondness for elven women!”

Nathaniel let himself smirk, glad for the excuse. He wasn’t privy to everything the Commander did, but he knew she hadn’t met with the nobles herself, and the only answer he could think of brought a number of interesting and amusing questions to mind.

“And that’s to say nothing of her misbegotten idea of sound policy,” Esmerelle went on. “The city is where the people and money and trade are, and what does she want to protect? The farms.”

Keep them busy. Keep them talking. Nathaniel casually drew off his gloves and tossed them down in just the way his father had so often done. Letting himself collapse into a chair as if the weight of the world’s banality were pressing down on him, he looked around the room with a jaded air that would have done Rendon proud. He could actually see the women easing at the familiarity of his manner.

“And here we are on a farm,” he drawled. “Away from prying eyes, certainly, but surely it would have been possible to lose ourselves in the city? The Marches have cured me of my taste for the primitive life, I’m afraid.”

“Yes, well.” Esmerelle waved a hand. “I’m sure Lord Guy has mentioned to you by now that not all of the lesser nobles have proven reliable. It is best that we convene in a place that is of little interest to them.”

A man unfamiliar to Nathaniel snickered. “If only because all the private spots in Amaranthine are occupied for more prosaic uses.”

Guy leered in response. “That is what she would be doing in a just world! But no, give them demonic powers and they put on airs.”

Nathaniel coughed loudly. “While I’m sure the lady and the bann find this topic fascinating, what if we were to move on for now to what kind of plans you actually have in place?” Yes, that was the right way to change the subject: Guy’s mouth snapped shut, and the two women smiled and nodded at Nathaniel in appreciation. Relieved, he settled back and listened to the three of them prattle off ideas for killing off the Commander – not all of them very plausible, and some clearly having more to do with venting their brutal sentiments than with anything real. Others, like Bann Esmerelle’s idea of quietly inciting riots, were more concerning.

He was about to comment on the particular bad temper of the peasants in the area of Knotwood Hills when everyone started at the sound of the front door being kicked in. A shadowy figure stepped through, and behind him was Anders, arms already raised. The dark, stinking cloud of his spell centered around Esmerelle, who struggled to her feet choking. Guy leapt up, and so therefore did Nathaniel, grabbing the other man and throwing him against the wall. The shadow stepped in front of Anders again, and a man making for the door fell almost at once, grasping at his bleeding throat. Nathaniel watched for just a second: he knew the dim figure must be Zevran, he even knew how such things were done, but to watch as it was done so well, by someone who hated him –

There was no more time for that. On her knees, gagging loudly, Esmerelle exploded into blood and reek and the same darkness Anders had thrown at her. Part of what was left of her splattered against Nathaniel’s side, and he reeled back, raising a hand to his mouth as the other nobles choked and staggered and fell, quickly, one by one, to Zevran’s whirling blades.

He himself never had to raise another finger. Whether that made him feel better or worse he would never decide for certain.

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