Virtue and Vice: Chapters 1 & 2

[scarylady]

Title: Virtue and Vice: Chapters 1 & 2
Characters: Alistair and Zevran
Rating: T
Summary: In a world where hypocrisy and corruption are as natural as breathing, an incorruptible ally is rarer than purest lyrium.  Set in Antiva, post-DAO.
In these chapters:  You can drink to forget, but you can't truly change who you are.

Those who've been reading my stuff for a looong time may recognise Chapter One.  I wrote it over a year ago, in order to temporarily purge the urge to write this story.

Updates will be irregular; T&S came too close to burning me out and I don't want to go there again.  But I've always finished what I've started, and I don't intend this to be any different, so don't fear to read :)

Much love to bellaknoti  for being my Comma Fairy, and also to analect  who kindly looked over Chapter One for me and gave me some excellent advice. 

 

 

CHAPTER ONE: STRANGER IN A STRANGE LAND

-oOo-

The sun beats down on the flagged walkways.  It glints on the reeking water of the canal, gleams on the pale frontages of the palazzi, and flashes on the dainty swords of the strolling nobili and of the sons of the rich commercianti who ape their ways, distinguishable only by the blatant ostentation of their finery.   Its fierce rays fail to penetrate the alleys between and behind the rich palazzi, which snake, and bend, and merge until eventually they give way to the grandeur of the Piazza, or to one of several less impressive campi. 

In the backstreets and alleys, the overhanging balconies and buildings provide blessed shade, although the mercy is lessened by the overwhelming stink of refuse, mingling with the stench of the canals to provide an olfactory torture.  Not that this has any effect upon the man who sprawls in the deep shade of a squalid doorstep, one arm across his eyes, the other flung out over the steps in the total abandonment of a drunken stupor.  A big man, a huge man, his muscular physique not yet wasted by his lifestyle, which is likely the only reason he still wears clothes, and does not sport a wide, red smile around his throat.  This is not a good place to drop one’s guard so completely.

He wakes with startling suddenness; one moment a rag doll, the next on his feet, brought to a warrior’s alertness by… something.  A second later, the granddaddy of all headaches slams between his eyes, and he slumps against the wall groaning.  “Oh Maker, not again.”  His voice is husky, rough, but not yet truly broken by fiery spirit.  Its timbre suggests that this is merely a matter of time; its despairing tone confirms it more completely.

A noise from the gloomy alley across the way brings his head around sharply, and he curses at the effect of the movement.  Guttural laughter and, yes… a scream.  That’s what woke him, a scream; headache or not, nausea or not, armed or not, he can’t ignore that siren call.

He blunders through refuse and night-soil, no thought in his mind, pure instinct overriding the searing pain in his head.  Someone is in trouble, nothing more and nothing less.  Two men, little more than boys, crouch over a bundle of pink cloth and foaming white lace; a dress and petticoat, flung over the head of a girl, leaving her stockinged legs bare.  His roar of rage captures their attention, their hands moving from their breech-fastenings to their knives; but these are no trained killers, and they move too slowly.  There is a sickening crack of bone, and one drops his knife with a scream of pain.  The other slashes wildly, catching the man across the arm before being slammed against the wall of the alley, the knife spinning away.  He punches the boy until he drops unconscious, ignoring the blood dripping down his arm.

The fracas has drawn attention, which the girl’s screams did not; a girl in trouble brings no profit, but a brawl offers opportunity for the unconscious or dead to be stripped of possessions. An audience gathers, as he gently rearranges the dress of the sobbing girl, a scared brunette of no more than fourteen perhaps, making the helpless shushing noises of a strong man out of his element.  Behind him, knives are drawn across the throats of the injured boys, and hands rifle through pockets.  It takes a moment for their presence to penetrate, past the throbbing hangover and the frantic crying of the girl who clings to him. When he turns with a reproving frown, the looters shrug.  “They are already dead, signore.  She is one of Serafina’s girls; her house is under the protection of the Corvi.”

He pushes against his eye sockets with the heel of his hand, as though to press the pain out through the back of his head, trying to concentrate.  “Which house?” he asks.  Provided with directions from those stuffing their pockets, he carefully picks up the girl-child and sets off to take her home.

 

The address is of a fair sized palazzo, fronting onto the waterways. The baking sun reflects blindingly off its pale façade, intensifying an already vicious headache. There’s no sign outside the door to show whether this is a home, or a house of commerce, but a plaque bears a pair of black iron wings.  Le ali del corvo; marking the palazzo as under the protection of the Corvi.  In Antiva, even an ignorant foreigner learns that sign quickly, or risks sudden death.

A sleepy porter at the door curses at the sight of the man, dripping blood and carrying a half-dazed girl.  He scurries into the house, calling for his mistress.

The woman who answers the call has sharp dark eyes at odd variance with her voluptuous body, encased in showy finery.  She’s a handsome woman, perhaps in her mid-thirties, with black hair and creamy skin, which no longer holds the blush of youth.  “Catarina!” she exclaims on catching sight of the girl.  “Come in, signore.  Please, set her down on the couch.”

The man sways where he stands, his eyes unfocussed in the dim hall after the glare of the sun.  The fight, the blood loss, and the heat have all mixed badly with his hangover, and now his self-imposed task is complete, his limbs feel like water.  He frowns, unable to summon enough co-ordination to do as he was asked, and carefully sets the girl on her feet instead.  “Your daughter was attacked, madam, I…” he staggers against a small table, spilling its contents to the marble floor, and tries to recover. “I’m sorry, I can’t seem to…” His mind gives up the fight with his body; he slides into unconsciousness, skidding down the wall to land in an ungainly heap.

-oOo-

 

“Such surprising things wash up on the shores of Rialto Bay, eh?”

“As you say, padrone.”  Serafina kept her tone neutral.

The man in the bed did not appear particularly surprising.  Unwashed, unshaven foreigners stinking of bad brandy aren’t exactly uncommon in Antiva City.  The most surprising thing about him was that he saved Caterina, and brought her home.   For that, Serafina had been willing to see his wound bound up, and food inside him, rather than having the porter throw him down the steps, as she would with any other drunk.

The arrival of their padrone, while the porter was still trying to lug the unconscious body to a seat so they could bandage him, had changed that plan.  She had been profuse in her apologies at the unseemly scene, but the padrone had waved her words aside, his gaze on the foreigner.  It was at his bidding that the drunk now lay in one of her good chambers.  If that was what the padrone wanted, then that was what he got.  He had plucked her from the whorehouse she served in, and set her up in this establishment.  Given her an opportunity she could never have dreamed of; to run her own house, a superior house, answerable only to the Corvi.  Why me, padrone? she’d asked when he made the offer.  Because you were kind to a child, he’d said.  It was virtually impossible to see the skinny boy she had known in this graceful man.  He wore power like a second skin over his beautifully made leather armour.

“I wish you to house him, feed him, dry him out, and put him to work.   He will make a good bodyguard, so that your girls may enjoy the air without a repetition of today’s drama.”

“Him, padrone?” A mountain of scorn lay hidden beneath the hesitant question. “Is it safe to have such a one around my girls?”  She hated to question her benefactor’s wishes, but the virtue of her younger girls was where their value lay.

His laughter was rich, and genuine. “Do not worry, Signora Serafina.   His morals are as strong as his sword arm.  It is his will that is weak, and that allowed his ideals to break him.  Antiva will toughen him up, yes?  Make a man of him.  And then, perhaps I shall have other work for such a one.”

“As you wish, padrone.  And if he asks why I do this for him?  Do you wish to be named?”

“Not at the moment.  You are returning his kindness to little Caterina, are you not?  She is unharmed?”

“Yes, padrone, she remains intact.  Her presentation is next week.  I apologise for the mishap, she slipped out while the porter answered a call of nature.”

“Running away?”

“Looking for him.”

“Ah.  His training will take longer than hers.  Until that is complete, she will not find him.  Perhaps one day.  But in the meantime, finish her preparations.  We should catch a sizable fish, with such beauty and sweetness.  Now, leave us.  I will be out in a moment; have Gina ready for me.”

 

-oOo-

 

Zevran stood looking down at the unconscious man in the bed; at red-gold hair grown wild and filthy; at cheekbones too sharp under flushed, golden skin.  Experienced eyes noted all the signs of drink, but he was not too far gone.  Not yet.  “I caught you just in time, amico mio,” he murmured softly.  “You picked a surer route to death than I did, but slower, much slower.  Today, it is my turn to play saviour.”

He ran a gentle finger down the sunken cheek, allowing himself the luxury of affection for a scarce moment.  Despite the warden’s suspicions, and fears, Zevran couldn’t begin to count the number of times Alistair’s shield had covered him, saved him.  Here in Antiva, his virtues were doubly precious for their rarity, while his weakness doubly threatened his life.  “For now, you shall stay here, and learn, little templar. Learn about vice.” Zevran’s low chuckle held nothing of humour. “You think you know all about monsters, yes?  You know nothing.”  His smile was bitter, self-mocking.  “Here, we are all monsters, and your goodness, your kindness, is a beacon; one that would have obliterated you quicker than the drink, and more surely than the darkspawn.  We must temper that goodness with wisdom, before I dare expose you to my world.  But for now, you are safe.”

 CHAPTER TWO: RUB A DUB DUB

-oOo-

Alistair awoke to a soft bed and a sore head.  Dim evening light seeped into the room through wooden blinds.  Maker, where am I?  I thought I…  He stopped, too ashamed to continue even in the privacy of his own mind, but the thoughts swirled there anyway, despite his preference. 

I thought I drank myself into unconsciousness. 

I thought I passed the night in the corner of a seedy inn, or down an alley with the rest of the trash.

This was no inn, or certainly not the kind he frequented. There was a light perfume in the air; the type of delicate flowery scent favoured by young girls in this country, where the intense sunlight and heat intensified all smells to the point of excess.

He shifted, the movement producing a groan as pain lanced through his head. A dim figure separated itself from the shadows and turned into an old woman; shapeless black dress, and a black shawl shrouding white hair.  She did not speak, but merely left the room.

Before he could summon the will to react, to once again risk movement, she returned with reinforcements.  Now there were three of them, carrying pails of steaming water that they poured into a bath.  More pails appeared, passed from unseen hands outside the door, until the bath was full.  One of the women turned to him and gestured, indicating that the bath was for him.

“Um, thanks, er… you can go now…please?”  His voice was rough, his throat burning.  Maker, he needed a drink.

One of the old women turned to the others and said something in Antivan, her voice cracked, her accent too thick for him to decipher.  They cackled and turned purposefully to the bed, stripping the covers from him and taking his arms. 

“What? No! I mean, stop it.  Look I’m a grown man, I can b- Hey!”

The last sharp expostulation was caused by them stripping from him the nightclothes he wore, their bony fingers surprisingly strong as they held him. Where did the clothes come from anyway? I don’t own a nightshirt. A bandage on his forearm, the sudden stiffness as he moved it and the distinctive smell of a poultice, distracted him long enough for them to usher him into the bath.

Maker, what happened?

Stick-thin fingers began to scrub him impersonally, and slowly the raging blush, that had risen when he was stripped, subsided. Alistair was irresistibly reminded of the stablemaster’s wife at Redcliffe, scrubbing a small boy who seemed incapable of staying clean for five minutes at a time.  It was soothing to be treated so, to forget for just a little while that he was a man now, with half a lifetime of errors behind him.

The arrival into his orbit of another elderly lady, this one bearing a straight razor and a bowl of thick creamy lather failed to disturb the peaceful mood that had descended on him.  Her hands were steady, the scrape of the razor sure and confident over the beard growth of… how long?  Alistair frowned.  Months, probably.  Certainly since before the sea journey to Antiva, the short-lived contract as a guard that had brought him here.  The thirst raged in his throat; but a scan of the room showed no handy bottles or decanters, and the sour fragrance of old ale – soaked into the very boards of taverns – was missing.  Not an inn, then.  Where in Andraste’s name am I?  He tried, in his slightly broken Antivan, to ask.  It took a couple of tries before he got a response, either because his Antivan was too poor or because they were reluctant to speak to him.  The answer was delivered in an accent so thick as to be practically incomprehensible, but Alistair made it out to be la casa di fantasia: the house of… he was not certain of the meaning of the last word… dreams, perhaps?

His musings were abruptly interrupted when the lather was briskly applied to his hair and the razor took its first stroke over his scalp.

“Hey, no!” He struggled to move, to escape the water; a cluster of vein-knotted but surprisingly strong arms seized and held him. “What are you doing?  Not my hair!” His struggles narrowly escaped causing an unfortunate collision between the razor and his ear, and the woman holding it stepped back at the same moment as Alistair froze in place.

“Pidocchi.”  The word she spoke, obviously in explanation, meant nothing to Alistair.  At his look of blank confusion, she reached out with two skinny fingers and delved into his hair.  He heard a tiny crack as her fingers withdrew past his ear and understood before she held out the broken brown-ish body on a fingernail smeared with blood.  Fleas.  His face burned anew and he ducked his head, making no further protest as she shaved his head and worked into his scalp some strong-smelling unguent, which reminded him of the scent of an opened wooden chest.  Pine?  No.  Cedar. That was it, the paste smelt of cedar wood.  Once Alistair’s head felt raw and strange, the razor and the paste moved to scrape over his armpits and a new concern raised its ugly head.  Maker, is she going to-? Everywhere? However, after a closer inspection than he was at all comfortable with – and endured with his eyes squeezed tight shut and his fists clenched – he was spared that particular indignity.  With a satisfied grunt the razor and bowl were set aside, and Alistair let out his breath in a relieved sigh.

One more vigorous scrubbing of his skin and the small tribe of elderly ladies appeared content.  He was encouraged by gestures to stand, to step out of the bath, and enveloped in rough towels which relieved his modesty issues and abraded his blushing skin in equal measure.  There seemed no question of his being permitted to dry himself; once again he was reminded irresistibly of his childhood, of scolding women rubbing coarse towels over his small body, with a complete disregard for his yelps and complaints.

Clothes were produced; not the ones he arrived in, filthy with dirt and spilt booze.  These were clean and serviceable, the cream linen trousers and white shirt commonly worn here in Antiva, where pale colours and thin fabrics were the norm. By the time Alistair was dressed a tray of food arrived, borne by yet another white-haired woman, as brown and wrinkled as a date.  At the sight and smell of the food – a bowl of hearty bean stew fragrant with herbs – his stomach rebelled and he shook his head.

“I’m not hungry; I need- I mean, can I have a drink? Birra, per favore.”

A click of the tongue and quick shake of the head. A spoonful of stew hovered an inch from his face. “Mangi.”   The cracked voice brooked no refusal and Alistair’s mouth opened without volition.  With a warm mouthful of beans and tomatoes, various systems which had been ignored for too long reared their heads.  Taste buds sent signals to stomach and brain and the return messages approved heartily. Nourishment was, they clamoured, a good thing, and Alistair chewed and swallowed under their combined urgings. There was another brief rebellion when the food actually hit his stomach, and for a moment Alistair thought he was going to reject it, but the next spoonful was easier.  By the fourth, he’d taken the spoon off them and was eating for himself, his Warden appetite re-emerging from self-imposed famine, tearing into the bread that accompanied the stew, mopping up final juices with the crust.

Washed, fed and clothed, he felt more human than he had since the-

His mind shifted away from that.  Better than in a long time.  That was enough.

-oOo-

The young man who was ushered into Serafina’s sitting-room bore little resemblance to the filthy, unshaven drunk who had bled all over her hall the previous day. The removal of grime and facial hair revealed a square face, strong jaw, and hazel eyes unclouded by drink, but still somewhat bloodshot. No broken veins in his nose or cheeks, and only a tiny tremor in his hands; the padrone was, as always, correct.  He was not yet too far gone to be dried out and put to work.  Regarding the Maestro Corvo’s connection to this one, Serafina quashed her curiosity.  Signore Arainai was known to have spent time in cold, muddy Ferelden, before his emergence as one of the brightest new stars in the Corvi firmament. He had his reasons, no doubt.

“You are the one who saved Catarina.  You have my thanks.” Ugh, the Ferelden tongue was so drab, like cold custard or boiled potatoes in her mouth. Foreign tongues had not come easily to her, but were necessary if she wished her House to be seen as superior.

He bowed in the Ferelden style, with an awkwardness that came from self-consciousness, not low breeding.  Interesting.  “Um… you’re welcome, madam… er, I mean signora.”

“I have need of a strong man who may be trusted with my girls.  I would offer you a job, as a guard, yes?”

“Really?”  He made no attempt to mask his astonishment, or the eagerness in his eyes or voice.  There was no artifice here, no guile. “Your daughters, signora?”

She laughed softly.  “No, Alistair, my girls.”  Merda, she’d used his name without realising, drawn in by his own blatant honesty.  Fortunately he did not appear to have noticed, so she moved smoothly on.  “This is a house of pleasure.  A whorehouse for the rich and powerful, under the protection of the Corvi, you understand?”  If the rich blush rising from his throat to his cheeks was any indication, then he did.

“There is a condition, however.” The wild look he gave her suggested he was getting entirely the wrong idea.  Sacro Coure di Andraste, does he think I intend him to whore for his living? “You will not drink.  Not now, not at any time you remain in my employ.  You will go daily to the sweat baths, purge the poisons from your system.  Signora Cosma, in the kitchens, will brew you a posset to quell your cravings; you shall drink this three times a day.” The look she gave him was cool and hard.  The one he returned reminded her of a puppy crouched by a puddle of piss. “I am giving you one chance.  One, and only one.  It is up to you what you do with it.”

“I… understand, signora. Thank you.”  His response seemed heartfelt, genuine.  It meant nothing.  In a month or two, if he kept off the bottle, perhaps she might believe it. 

“Buono.  Go now; the porter will instruct you in your duties.”

-oOo-