fanfic: A Fish Out of Water

[bellaknoti]

An AU to Wings of the Storm Crow

Title: Fatal Fete (Chapter Twenty-One)
Rating: AO
Pairing: Zev/Lily
Summary: There are so many threads here, I can’t even hope to see the pattern of this tapestry. I’m not even sure what colours we’re using. The metaphor breaks down from here. I’m lost, that’s the thing. Lels says it’ll be a piece of cake. Hah. Yeah, but, the cake is a lie. Just don’t think about it, right? It’s only a party... full of carrion eaters who are very, very skilled at creating carrion... Athena protect me...


scarylady is very awesome, and fixes all the injustices and horrible liberties I take with the language without even meaning to.


Author Note: The holidays ate me alive! Hopefully you'll find this to have been worth the wait. ;)




Chapter 21: Man Down

The brightness of morning finds me gritty-eyed and cranky, sitting in the Wardens’ hall, hands wrapped around a cup of coffee. Leliana sits across from me, with Anders and Alistair to either side, and Ponka beneath my chair. Facing the door with my back to the wall, I’m about as guarded as possible. The murmur of our conversation is largely drowned out by the general clamour of the other Wardens around us. Some are eating breakfast, ready to greet the day, others are stealing a last bite before they find their beds.

“Do you want me to smite them for you?” Alistair asks around a mouthful of bread, and I blink, looking at him, totally confused.

“What?”

“The melons. Do you want me to smite them for you? They must have done something to personally offend you. I won’t stand for an insubordinate breakfast.” He says this, so deadpan and with an off-handed, matter-of-fact tone, that it takes a moment for my brain to catch up.

I’ve been glaring holes in the melon plate.

I rub my forehead, chagrined into a smile, despite myself. “I’m feeling uncommonly bitchy this morning,” I say with mock cheerfulness, making Alistair blink, Anders laugh, and Leliana cough, choking on her coffee.

The Wardens approach our end of the table intermittently, speaking with Alistair about one thing or another, checking in or double-checking orders, making quick status reports and such. I pay them no mind, simply slogging through some food because it’s necessary, until I hear one of them say “...Enzo? He did not show at post last night. It is not like him to be late. I fear something has happened to him.” What he leaves unsaid is what everyone takes for granted: the Crows probably got him. It’s kinda funny that he’s right, but not in the way he thinks.

Alistair blinks, then shrugs. “I haven’t seen him either - not since yesterday afternoon - but I’ve been busy.” He sits back, frowning, looking for all the world like he’s carefully considering what to do, but I’m fairly certain he decided what he was going to say a long time ago. I’ve caught him having hypothetical conversations and arguments with himself a few times, late at night. I promised him I’d never tell, if he promised not to tell that I do it, too. “It’s not like him to miss a shift without telling anyone, either,” he says, slowly. “We need to know what’s keeping him, and the sooner the better, so get Angelo and whoever else you pick - no more than two - and go find out. The last place I saw him was in the training yard, yesterday afternoon, about two hours after I got back. He walked out the south door.”

“Ser.” The Warden crosses his arms over his chest and bows his head briefly before retreating.

I swallow. The ratcheting continues; I can’t even see the top of this hill. Gods-damned roller coasters. I never expected my life to turn into one.

Even in the midst of battle, there is sometimes nothing left to do. In that case, you simply breathe, and marvel at the fact that you have survived, again.

Oh, Zev. Where are you?

.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.

The door opens, letting in a rush of cold air and chill rain, followed by my husband, catching me as I stare at the cursor, blinking at me accusingly for the last half hour from the page of my current document. I sigh, stuck again, and look up at him as he leans down to kiss me, the damp strands of his hair falling over his shoulder and sticking to my face. “Ah, cara,” he murmurs as he pulls away, glancing over at the computer screen. “Writing again, I see,” he comments, voice neutral.

“Yep. Stuck right now though.”

“Oh?” He arches an eyebrow at me as he hangs up his coat. “What is it?”

Even though he takes a dim view of my writing, considering what has happened to us, he encourages me, and even tends to help me out from time to time, because he knows I enjoy it. Besides, if I’m writing about us, then it’s got to be fiction, right? Should be safe. I hope. “Oh... We’re up to our ears in politics and intrigue. I’m about to go to Lothrein’s estate, but first I have to figure out what you’ve been up to, so I know where you’ll be when I get there.”

“Hmmm... It is known that Enzo is traitor, yes?”

“Yep. I figure you had him killed, if you didn’t do it yourself.”

He shakes his head, surprising me. “No... I do believe I would want him alive. Once a man is dead, no more use can be made of him,” he says, leaning down to unlace his boots. “And he can no longer suffer,” he adds, giving me a chill. “Where is our little Chickpea?”

“Sleeping off a milk-drunk,” I say, smiling, and he nods.

“And your back? Better?”

I hold up my hand, waving it back and forth in a ‘so-so’ gesture. “Ehh. Not so bad. The stabbing pain hasn’t come back.” Gods bless my husband and his absolutely fucking magical hands. Thanks to him, there hasn’t been a single day where I’ve had to crawl because of my back, not since he got here.

“Ah, good. This, I am glad to hear. So, your story: what else gives you trouble?” he asks, peeling off his wet socks, and I make a mental note to get him a new pair of boots.

“Uhm... well, I need a passage where I get together with Leliana to find out what she knows and decide what to do, and... Then I have to meet someone in the grotto, but I don’t know who is going to be there.”

Zev shrugs, leaning back against the wall, looking at me. “Cesar. No one else could be trusted at that moment, and sending Ignacio would have too many unwelcome eyes upon you. Skip the planning meeting,” he suggests, waving a hand. “It will consume much time, and do little to advance the story, in the end.” I delete a fairly large chunk of text and he gives me a wry smile. “Ah, so I am not yet returned, yes? Tch. There is your problem: not enough Zevran.”

I giggle, looking up at him as he comes to stand near me, stroking my hair. I can’t help but agree. “But I can’t just... skip ahead like that.”

“Hmm... and why not?” He leans down to purr in my ear, “Think on it, cara, how hungry my hands would be, after such fear and aching for you, after such uncertainty, hmm?” His hands slide down my shoulders, making me shiver and my nipples pucker, immediately soaking the pads on the inside of my bra, despite how our Garbanzo just ate less than an hour ago. The press of his lips to the side of my neck has me melting into his arms, my eyes slipping closed as his familiar weight and warmth wrap me up in solid safety. “If you worry so about how to continue the story,” he whispers, his hands splaying across my stomach, “Simply write from another perspective. Mine, perhaps. Show them what I have been up to, until you can put yourself back in my arms, hmm? And then you can get to the sex,” he says, a note of humour in his voice as his hands travel over my hips and down my thighs.

“But it’s supposed to be from my point of view... it has been, the whole time.” I’m losing my train of thought as his lips nibble softly along the edge of my ear.

“Hmm-no, not true, cara; there was the passage you had me write, toward the beginning, yes? While you were healing, after being crushed?”

“Ohhh yeahhh...” I wrap my arm around his shoulders as he slips his hands underneath me, lifting me out of my chair, clearly intent on another subject entirely. “I don’t suppose I can convince you to write another passage...? I’m so bad at the intrigue.”

He pauses, cradling me against his chest while I look up at him, then sighs softly and rolls his eyes dramatically. “Sì, cara, I will write a piece for you,” he says, his tone saying ‘long-suffering’, but his eyes sparking with humour.

“And so now, we’ll get straight to the sex, too, right?” I ask, giggling, and he gives me that knowing, sexy smile that always stops my heart, carrying me toward the bedroom.

“Oh yes, I do like this plan. Is that not why you began writing about me in the first place?”

He’s joking, but I shake my head, interrupting my kissing his neck momentarily to press my lips to his ear, whispering, “No, my love, I started writing about you, and came to your bed, because I love you. You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me, and I began to think that before you ever touched me.” I look up at him seriously as he lays me on the bed, and grab his hands as he moves to pull away. He looks at me with eyes drowning deep, and I wonder how it is that he doesn’t know this, even after all this time. With him, I’ve learned that many of his small jokes actually belie some carefully hidden insecurity. He’s good at it; I don’t think anyone but me notices. “That Yule, you know what I wished for, more than anything else?”

He shakes his head, turning my hand over in his so he can press a soft kiss to my palm, still looking at me, and I sigh with desire, fingers curling over his cheek.

“I wished that I could keep you, that I’d never lose you. I’ve been thinking that every day, since the moment we first met. The sex is... umf...” I trail off, incoherent, as there is no adequate word to describe how amazing he is, but I know he can see the truth of it in my eyes, how much I desire him, whenever I look at him. The smile that crinkles the corners of his eyes shows me. “Oh, my love, but that’s not why I wrote. I wrote so I could be with you. And that, more than anything, is what I want. Then, now, always.”

“Hmm... ‘Always’, you say,” he murmurs, crawling onto the bed to hover over me, not quite touching, and exaggerates an aggrieved face. “Tch. Terrible fate for a man, to have a wife so constant as you, cara,” he says, making me giggle, and then cuts me off as his mouth covers mine. I moan and arch wantonly, having long since abandoned any semblance of shyness when it comes to him.

As he settles his weight atop me and rolls his hips against mine, stealing my breath, I have to admit, he’s right about one thing: sometimes it is best to just skip straight to the sex.

After all, I’ve learned that when it comes to sex, he’s always, always right.

.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.

Scaling the wall, pulling the shadows around me and sinking into the darkness, silencing my footfalls and spiriting through alleyways unseen, these are the easy things. No, it is tearing myself away from her, my Lily, that is the most difficult part. My wife. How that word sears itself into my tongue. Ah, but there is no doubt, she is mine; her every motion, every look, every breath proclaims it. The warmth of her lips lingers on mine, my palms itch to trace the curves I can never seem to know well enough, and for a moment, I must bite back the urge to turn, to go to her again, to take her quickly against the wall, to drink my name from her lips as she moans for me...

Braska. I must turn my mind to other affairs.

Of all those I could choose, Lothrein, I do believe, will be the most satisfying. I determined, long ago, that he would be my first target. I had thought my rancor for the man long since faded, but seeing his face on the dock upon our arrival brought everything back to me with galling and vivid detail. I have not forgotten, and I have not forgiven. It was he who first purchased me for the Crows, he who first broke me to their yoke, and by his hand was I shaped into the cold-blooded killer I can still be. I must be. It is fitting that I shall begin here. He is powerful among the Masters, to be sure, and an old, established name. To topple him from his seat will cause fear and anarchy; at least two thirds of the current Masters are his spawn in one way or another. I will remove the foundation of this fortress that the Hand of the Crows has made, one stone at a time.

On the wings of the night, I could ghost over the wall of the estate; he still has the same holes in his defences. Not by lax security, but as a way of making sure that he knows where to watch. He will not see me, however, for the guard at the wall is easily disabled by a poisoned dart from the darkness. The guard on the house, however, will have noted the slump of the man on the wall, so while that is being investigated, I slip around the back of the house and enter through the common kitchen gate.

Once inside the walls, I step back into the shadows, just in time to keep the unwelcome eyes of two passing servants from snagging on my presence. Skirting the wall, I make my way to the garden, where I may lose myself amongst the plants, breaking up my silhouette with the screen of foliage, and wait for my opportunity to stalk closer to my goal: the wall of Lothrein’s study. From here is all business conducted, and I discovered, as a very young Crow, that the best way to be the director of one’s own fate is to watch, and listen. To that end, I spent a great deal of time searching out the best places in which to hide myself, where the usual guard does not walk, or does not look, where one would assume there is simply not enough space to hide a body.

I know all of these places well.

For instance, there is a balcony on the second floor, just down from the window in question. Scaling the wall to get to it is a simple affair. It attaches to the side of the house with a lip of masonry that goes all the way around the outside of the second floor. On the side of the house, between the balcony and the window, stands the kitchen chimney. Usually too hot to touch, I learnt long ago that if I could simply stand the heat for a few precious moments, I could slip past it to the other side and perch on the narrow ledge of stone there, out of view of most, and in perfect placement to hear all that occurs, so long as I may be content to balance on my toes with my hands flat to a wall behind me. My hands are no longer so used to the heat of the stone as they once were, so I must entrust my fate to my climbing gloves. They do not insulate well; my hands are well roasted by the time I reach the other side, but the sacrifice is worth it, for what I discover.

Lothrein, not the most subtle nor eloquent of creatures when angered, paces and rants, laying the responsibility for the destruction of Maso’s cell and the continued existence of myself and my Lily directly at someone’s feet, but he is quick to defend himself.

“I could not know that she would have the wherewithal to mount such an attack, Master. She never showed any signs of such capabilities, and when we made our move, according the the Warden healer Anders, she should still have been two weeks from any such activity. She was creeping around the compound like a kitten and randomly dropping unconscious in the hallway.”

Enzo. Oh, Ignacio, are you in on this, or simply as double-crossed as me? The layers pile deeper... The surge of anger I feel in this moment leaves me cold and empty.

“She is amongst her own people! How could you not have seen it?” Lothrein demands, and I hear Enzo sigh.

“All the signs suggested a deep and distrustful rift between herself and the Warden Commander, to the point that I believed it unlikely he would assist her, as he also despises the renegade.” Oh, ‘the renegade’, is it? I like that.

“Tell me why I should let you live, you incompetent fool,” Lothrein hisses, and I feel just a touch of sympathy for the other man, having heard such words, myself. Here is the man, after all, who laughed in the face of my pathetic lie over Rinna. But that sympathy is as a snowflake on the tongue, for it is this treacherous boot-lick who has nearly laid us low.

“I have further information on both of them, Master,” comes the prompt reply, a sure bait for the hook that will allow him to catch his own life out of the jaws of death tonight.

“Spill it then, and be quick,” Lothrein snaps, “My patience wears thin.”

“Lily is mortal, Master. Entirely mortal. She does not carry the Taint, and so is not a Warden, either. The Hero of Ferelden is no more; she is no elf, but an entirely human, entirely vulnerable woman, come from someplace other. Though she continues to claim Ferelden as her homeland, she has never actually set foot upon it. It is now known to us, clearly, that the Wardens are yet behind her, even still. As for him, I believe he will make moves so he may purchase the contract on himself and his woman.”

The pregnant pause speaks volumes.

“Surely he does not act alone.”

“They use me as messenger to Ignacio. Everyone is playing their hands close, and they speak in thick code. Perhaps if you allow me to live this night, I may return and find out more.” He is positively obsequious, his tone grating on my patience, now worn thin.

There is a long silence from Lothrein, as he resumes his seat. The chair creaks, and I hear the sound of glass upon glass, liquid being poured, another pause. When finally he speaks, his words are bitten off as though they pain him to say. “Go back to the compound and await further instruction. You are to watch and listen, nothing more. I will send for you when I wish another report.”

“Your wish, Master,” Enzo replies quickly, and then the sound of the door. Oh, you watch and listen, hmm? This will be swiftly remedied. First, to escape this place unseen, and then, to Ignacio. I must see his face when I tell him this news.

As he does not yet know that I am aware of his betrayal, some use may still be made of Enzo.

Just as I am thinking perhaps it is wisest if I climb down the wall from here, rather than slip around the chimney again, there is a knock at Lothrein’s door, and I pause when I hear Lothrein bid them enter.

“Ah, Gino, what news?”

The new man’s voice is low and full of the grating of stone on stone, and I recognize Lothrein’s favourite sycophant, from when I was yet an apprentice. “All the servants are informed of the plan for the gala, Master.” Oh, a party? Most convenient. I must move quickly. But one moment more...

“Ah, good. You will oversee the arrival of the wine yourself. I wish there to be no mistakes this time.”

“Yes, Master. The Mistress has been advised that her services will be needed if anything should go awry.” I shiver, in spite of my long years of hardening; the lash of the Mistress is to be feared, for she is only slightly kinder than being in the hands of Maso’s cell. I should very much like to see her handed over to my Lily.

.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:

“Good evening.”

To his credit, he does not jump, though I can tell that he did not hear me, nor suspect my presence, as he turns around to look at me, and I close the window behind me with a smile. “Ah, my friend, I did not expect to see you this night.” Ignacio’s study, though small, is warm, and packed to the rafters with books on every subject. The window, situated high up on the wall of a fairly large estate, is not easy to access, so his surprise is more than understandable.

“Yes, I realize. I would have sent word, however there has been an extreme upset in the balance of our current interests, and I did not feel that anything less than an immediate presence would do.”

That gets his attention, and his eyes narrow. “Oh? What has come?”

“Everything has been compromised at the hands of our messenger,” I state flatly, the information stale and numb in my mouth. There: his eyes give him away. He is just as surprised as I. This is good, for at the moment I simply have not the stomach to be fighting this war on so many fronts. To begin again with all odds against me is a soul-wearying prospect, and I must wonder now if I am going dangerously soft. Oh, my Lily, she is a double-edged knife. “I must act upon the knowledge and move to protect.”

He stares at me a moment, incredulous. “Now? We are not prepared for such a thing!”

“Yes, I am aware. Yet, we have two days. I believe the imminent affair must be the time, as they will not expect us to be aware of their knowledge. Some use may yet be made of the messenger, as none are the wiser for the moment, yes? What of the contacts you intended to make? Did anything bear fruit?” I must resist the temptation to be in motion, to fidget and pluck at things. So much time amongst the Wardens has given me bad habits.

Ignacio sits back in his chair, folding his arms over his chest. “Yes, half a dozen for certain... more perhaps. There are some who might be persuaded simply by the fact that you intend to move immediately.”

Treacherous allies, all. “What of the paperwork? Has the bid been settled upon anyone?”

At Ignacio’s nod, I believe I know the answer as to whom, but I must confirm. “Oh? Is it fortunate that we shall be paying him a visit, then? Or is it someone else?”

“No, you guess correctly. I hear it was dearly won, as well.”

I feel my eyebrow go up and curse myself for it. I must better master my face, remember my training. “Oh? I thought none would touch it.”

Ignacio shakes his head. “As did I, however the bidding became fierce between two.”

“Alas, I was unable to procure the contract,” a new voice says from the hallway, and it is one I know well.

“Ah, my good friend - I have not seen you in a lifetime, it seems,” I say, looking him up and down. Salvail is a study in practiced ease, hardly changed from the last time I saw him.

He nods, leaning against the door frame and crossing his arms over his chest, mirroring Ignacio, perhaps unconsciously. Interesting... “I could hardly resist the temptation. Also, I did not appreciate the idea of a contract on you being in those hands, of all who could own it.” His mouth twists in distaste, and I sympathise. Lothrein was not kind to either of us, but he particularly enjoyed torturing Salvail. He was young, and dark, and had ‘pretty eyes’. No matter that he vastly preferred the company of women. “So, I hear that you are making your move.”

I nod, now knowing how long he has been standing there, and I believe I have also divined the identity of the listener in the alcove at my last meeting with Ignacio. “I have run out of time,” I say simply, and shrug.

“Getting in will be easy,” he says, moving further into the room, entirely at home, and I wonder if Salvail still has the same tastes as I watch Ignacio track him. “Getting out will be more difficult.”

“I wish to avoid as much bloodshed as possible. Making a mess will hardly bring support.”

Salvail rubs the side of his neck as he thinks, a nervous tic he has never got rid of. “Mmmh. So you say, but a little fear goes a long way, yes?”

“Yes, however fear also breeds distrust, in which case there are always daggers pointed at your back.”

Salvail shrugs. “No matter which way you leap, that will be the case, in this instance, yes? Far better to deal in absolutes. If you show that retribution is both swift and final, this is a clear message.”

“How many graves do you intend to fill?” Ignacio asks, and this gives me pause, for it is a very good question.

“At least one... what are the current odds?”

“Amongst the thirteen in question, seven to six, against. The fifteen are five and ten, for. The other thirteen are twelve and one, against - the one surprised me, but then again, has always been rogue in one way or another, and may have gone with the opposing side for obstinacy's sake, or as part of a larger scheme. I do not believe he is an ally, but I also believe he would eat his coin before reneging on a bet such as this. Should you come out the victor, he will claim he knew it would be so, all along, and should you not, will have hedged enough to make it look as though it was his intent to skew the game in his favour. So with the six abstaining, the odds are twenty-four to seventeen, against. I may be able to better that, but not by more than two or three.”

“I do believe I have an idea. It is well that we have two days to prepare, for we will need to send in some people tomorrow to make arrangements. Are we quite alone? For if this is overheard, it will go the worse for all of us.”

Ignacio and Salvail smile, and I know they will be true allies, at least for the time being. Later? Who knows. But for now... I must focus on the game at hand, and play with the pieces already in my possession.

.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.

“Ah, my lady Cassia, how wonderful to see you.” Lothrein oozes charm like an oil slick, and I paste a pleasant smile on my face, playing coy and batting my lashes at him. “I was beginning to fear that I would not see you at all before you returned home.”

“Ah, you flatter me, ser. But you spoke so kindly on the docks, to extend an offer of hospitality with only having just laid eyes on me. I couldn’t simply leave and not honour the favour of such an invitation. Truly, you have a lovely home. Oh, but where are my manners? I have brought a gift.” I hold up the parcel in my hands, a cloth-wrapped, leather-bound copy of Dane and the Werewolf, a traditional Ferelden tale, something along the lines of The Prince and the Pauper, only much darker. As he turns it over, looking at it curiously, I smile. “I was advised that your lady wife enjoys books, so I hoped perhaps a tale from my homeland would suit.”

He looks at me, jovial and relaxed on the surface, but his smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes, and I know he’s studying me. I can see the gears clicking in his head. “Just so,” he says, nodding. “It is a most kind gift; I am sure she will appreciate it.”

“While it was not my intention to impose myself upon your event, I am grateful for the opportunity to meet so many all at once. Tell me, what is the occasion tonight?”

“Ah, dear lady, tonight you find yourself amongst the finest flower of Antivan society, gathered in honour of Patrizio Quattrocchi’s daughter Benedetta, who has reached the quite marriageable age of fifteen.” He leans close, looking across the room, so that I may follow his line of gaze to a man who looks kind of like he might be a nice guy, laughing with his companion as they elbow each other, surrounded by a group of other men and women who apparently share the jest.

“So, this is her birthday party?” I ask, looking around with furrowed brow, because I definitely don’t see a lot of teenagers in attendance.

He chuckles. “No, my dear, this is the evening in which the other families will negotiate with him for courtship rights.” He begins to point out a few illustrious figures, nobility, craftsmen, merchants. “...Giovanni Sallazzo, there, you see him pointedly ignoring Antonin Fiorini, who looks like he may have been overindulging in lemons.” He laughs at this, and I have to rack my brain as the names ring bells from the swirl of information Leliana gave me today. Ah, I’ve got it: they’re Antivan textile artists, and bitter rivals.

I laugh softly in appreciation. “Ah, I do prefer Sallazzo velvets, it is true, though Fiorini carries the finest silks.” I suspect this was a test, but the way he looks at me, slightly more appraising, slightly more respect, tells me that I have passed, so far. “I’m liking the new line coming out of Vitanza lately, however. They seem to have much improved; I wonder if they have new weavers.”

“Hmm, indeed they do, my lady. It is a fortuitous time to be making new trade agreements, yes? Ah, but to that end, I find I must part your company for a short while.” Catching my hand, he presses a kiss to the knuckles, and I remember the last time Zev had me pressed against the wall to make myself blush. “I have arranged for you to be seated at the head table tonight, so I do hope you will join me presently. Until then, and with regrets, fair lady.” He gives me this polite little half-bow, releasing my hand, and I smile prettily for him, relieved when he walks away, trying not to show that I am revolted enough to almost vomit. I retreat to the edge of the room so I can put my back to a wall, on tenterhooks, waiting for the violence to break out at any moment. I hate this shit... I hate parties. I hate politics. Oh gods, protect me.

I can see the servants already laying the trivets on the sideboard, ready to hold the serving plates that will shortly be arriving, and take a deep breath. Everything’s going to be okay. Nothing’s happening, and I have no idea why I’m here. I smile politely and chitchat with some minor politician’s wife, praising the decor of the house and commiserating over the price of coffee lately, though I really can’t say it’s particularly expensive, honestly. It’s about eight bucks a pound for good beans, at home, and she’s complaining about how many coppers she has to shell out. Lady, talk to me when everything costs gold. But no, I can’t say that, so I simply smile and nod, which is what I seem to be doing a lot of tonight.

Assuming we make it that far, the part I’m really worried about is the dance.

I’m light on my feet now, so maybe it won’t be so bad, but I’ve never done well at these things. I hate parties. I hate crowds. Oh gods, but I have to get used to this, because if Zev is going to be at the top, this kind of thing is going to be happening to me all the time. And I won’t be able to skip it, because I’m his wife. Wife. Oh gods. Oh, but I need to be paying attention, because now I’ve missed what she said.

“I’m sorry, what?”

“I said you seem a bit distracted,” she replies, and laughs sweetly.

I smile ruefully and duck my head, then lean in conspiratorially. “It’s these pointy Orlesian shoes; they pinch my toes abominably. I wish I’d worn something more sensible! The dance is going to be agony.” This is a total lie, but it’s as good of an excuse as any. It makes her laugh, which is a good sign, and the talk turns to fashion, giving me another chance to exercise my knowledge of Thedosian fabrics. I’m not at all sure if that’s the proper term for people who live here, but whatever. I just won’t say it out loud. Right? Right. Close enough.

All my grandmother’s lessons in etiquette float through my mind as I mingle with the party guests, smiling so much my face feels like it might crack.

Stand up straight, don’t fidget, drop your eyes demurely when introduced to a man, don’t forget to curtsy if he’s of a higher rank than you, answer all catty comments with a smile and a laugh, keep the moral high ground in all conversations, and for heaven’s sake, don’t touch your face!

With dinner comes a bit of breathing room, as we must now all be seated. I am relieved to see that the place settings are familiar: wine glass, water glass, salad plate, soup bowl, dinner plate, dessert plate, salad fork, dinner fork, dessert fork, and oh no, seafood fork, soup spoon, dessert spoon, butter knife, meat knife, cheese knife. Good grief. At least I know what all of this is for.

When it comes to meals of many courses, the wisest thing to do is to eat a normal portion of salad, a very small portion of soup, and no more than three bites of anything further. It may not seem like much, but those three bites add up when there are twelve courses to get through, and you mustn’t appear ungrateful or boorish.

And oh gods, the food. I could eat like this forever. Seafood stuffed raviolis in some kind of white wine sauce. Some kind of cured meat rolled around a strange fruity cheese that simply bursts on my tongue. Stuffed artichoke hearts, oh gods. I want four of them. I only take one, but the man at my side, some merchant whose name I’ve already forgotten, laughs softly when he sees me eye them. Risotto with asparagus and mushrooms in it. Some kind of seafood chowder. Oh gods, I’m in heaven.

Dinner banter is light and urbane, and since it’s mostly in Italian, I get to ignore it and focus on eating, which is wonderful, because I haven’t eaten since breakfast. One bite at a time, darling. We are not pigs at a trough. Sit up straight. Too much going on, what with Leliana dressing me and giving me a crash-course in textiles, and then meeting with Cesare at the grotto in the park. All he did was give me a necklace. Not even a word, just put it on me and left. I have no idea what it was about, but... it’s a pretty thing, a piece of cloudy, pale blue stone surrounded by sparkling darker blue pieces, all set in silver and suspended from a pretty twisted chain. I wonder if it’s magical, or if Zev just wanted me to have it. There’s got to be a reason for it, surely.

Dinner passes fairly uneventfully, though Lothrein makes a point of having me come sit with him during the dessert course, so that he can praise the pastries, but I only have eyes for the cannoli. This does not escape his notice, and he raises his eyebrows. “You have had the dish before, then?” he asks, indicating for a servant to give me a second one as my mouth waters.

Oh shit, think fast. “Oh, oh yes. There was a lady from Antiva at Castle Redcliffe, many years ago now, and she made these once, for a feast.” I glance at him from the corner of my eye, relieved to see that he simply picks his up, as well, so at least I won’t look barbaric. They’re small, about the size of your average egg roll, but the cream inside is like a cloud. I cannot help the hum of yummy that escapes my lips, and Lothrein chuckles at me. I blush, not having to fake it this time.

“Truly, that is the best compliment a cook could hope for,” he says, and I smile, sincere. “Tell me, how did you find the meal?” I rave for a minute about how wonderful everything was, how much I enjoyed the little shrimp in some kind of tomato cream sauce, and the whatever-it-was that they did to the eggplant, among other things, and he positively beams at the praise. I’m not sure why - maybe it’s just nice to hear from someone who isn’t so used to eating like this. “Ah, so charming you are, my Lady Cassia. Truly, it is a pleasure to have your company this evening. Will you do me the honour of a dance?” he asks, picking up my hand again and pressing his lips to the knuckles, and maybe I’ve had just a little too much wine, because I don’t have to fake the blush this time.

Shit.

“Uh-- Of course, signore; it would be my pleasure, ser.” What am I gonna say - no? The musicians strike up the first chords, and everyone gathers in the ballroom. Lothrein takes the first dance with his wife, which I guess is only proper, and it’s a relief to see that it’s a simple waltz. Seems that some things are universal. There’s some kind of complicated quadrille thing after that, and I get hopelessly turned around as I’m passed from one hand to another, much the same as all the other women in the room, but they manage to make it look graceful and natural. I’m just trying not to trip over my skirt. But the men I dance with are competent and more than happy, for the most part, to lead, so I manage to make it to the other side of the room without any mishaps.

Next is some kind of circle dance, a complicated thing where everyone goes around in interlocking rings, meeting in the centre and swapping partners before pulling outward into circles again. I get lost in the flurry of exchanges and end up in the wrong place more than once, but the others seem to find humour in it, and I bow out, laughing and breathless. Fetching up against a wall, I find myself standing next to a guard, and fan myself, hot from all the bodies and motion.

Why am I here? There’s no fight. There’s no intrigue... It’s just a party. There’s nothing going on here. I mean, even listening in on the conversations... yeah, there’s political machinations amongst people, but it’s all concerning this guy’s daughter and how they want to vie for position. I’ve listened to them, and filed away what I can in the back of my mind, but there doesn’t seem to be much of relevance. Maybe I’m just supposed to keep my ear to the ground? I have no idea.

The song ends, and everyone breaks for refreshment, giving me the opportunity to get a drink, myself. This is the moment when I notice that Lothrein is still drinking from the same cup. In fact, I’ve only seen him drink from this one particular goblet, different from all the rest, and then only from wine bottles poured by his personal footman. Interesting. Easier to protect yourself from poison that way, I guess. I snag a glass of what I think is going to be water, and turns out to be chilled white wine. Alas. I’m too thirsty to put it down.

Everyone gathers again, and Lothrein saunters up to me, extending his hand. I smile prettily and take it, and am suddenly swept up into a rakish, tango-like dance that has me blushing heatedly through the entire thing. At least we’re not the only people on the dance floor. I would be mortified. Scratch that, I am mortified.

“You move so well for a lady of Ferelden,” he murmurs, pulling me in close. I can see from the corner of my eye that it is rather more intimate than is strictly necessary, and try to copy the other women’s movements, stepping back from him with a little kick of my heel.

“Father thought it best that I be educated in many forms of courtly activity, in the event that the Guerrins should find use for me abroad,” I reply glibly, letting him spin me out to arms’ length.

“Oh? And who is your father?” he asks, and I laugh softly to cover up my furious thought. Family! Why didn’t I think about that?! Quick! Who lives in Redcliffe?!

“Ah, he is guard captain in Arl Teagan’s employ, signore.”

“And this was sufficient to allow you access to such education?” he asks, eyebrow raised as he bends me over backward, and I can feel the hard press of him along my thigh, leaving me momentarily speechless and entirely revolted, though I smile for him anyway.

“Arl Teagan is a generous and fair-minded man, and when I proved both smart and capable, he was only too happy to welcome me into his household,” I reply, mimicking the complicated little shimmy and twisty foot-work that the lady next to me is doing.

“You truly are a charming woman,” he says, musing, almost surprised, and I smile.

“Thank you, signore. You are most kind.” The song ends on a dip, and he presses to me again, foetid breath hot against my neck.

“Perhaps you will join me for a walk through the garden,” he murmurs, and I shudder with disgust, unable to suppress it. Fortunately, he completely misreads this as desire, as he rises, standing me up with him, and gives me the most loathsome shark’s grin. Kissing my hand, believing himself to have the answer he seeks, he gives me a polite bow and backs away, as is only proper.

I leave the dance floor, catching the snap of fire from his wife’s eye, and not liking it one bit. That woman is going to poison me, I’m sure of it. Best not to eat or drink anything else. Seeing Lothrein involved in discussion with a knot of men in one corner, I take the opportunity to duck out and make my way to the powder room. Leliana finds me in the hallway here, and I sigh with relief as we close the door behind us, leaning against it. She lays a finger to her lips, tucking her hair behind her ear significantly, and I nod.

“Maker’s breath, I have not danced so much in a very long time,” I complain, sitting down. “I find that I very much hate these shoes.” No lie. Four hours in heels is too much for me, even now.

Leliana clucks her tongue, kneeling in front of me to remove the offending articles and massage some feeling back into my toes. “I will try to ease your pain, m’lady,” she murmurs, and then, after a moment, “May I speak openly?” At my nod, she says, “M’lady seems to have attracted an admirer tonight.”

My wide, frightened eyes tell her what I cannot with words, as I laugh softly, apparently light-hearted. “Indeed; it is entirely unexpected.” I sigh with relief as Lels pushes on my arches and flexes my toes between her fingers, bringing life back to them and draining away some of the stiffness and pain. “I do believe, however, that I am close to being ready to leave. I find I am tiring rapidly. Do you know how much longer the party is meant to go on?”

“Mmmm...” she hums, trying to judge, as she slips the shoes back on me and I wince at the necessity as my toes are crammed together again. “Soon there will be another moment in the dining hall, for wine and perhaps something small to eat. Many of those gathered will go into the garden to meet with one another and speak privately, then there will be a toast to the Patrizio, after which most will leave.”

“So, not too long then?”

“I would not think so, m’lady. Perhaps an hour or two.”

I fight not to groan. Another hour or more. Fuckin’ hell. Dionysus, watch over me. “Hmm. I have no desire to go tromping about in the garden in these heels. I do believe I will sit that out, and simply enjoy the musicians. Attend closely; I wish to leave the moment the toast is finished. Perhaps not the first out the door, but certainly close behind them. Understood?”

“Yes, m’lady,” she replies, giving me a wink, and I shake my head, putting a hand to it like I’ve got a splitting headache, long suffering.

Sticking to my plan puts me unexpectedly in the company of Lothrein’s wife, as she takes the seat directly next to me in the ballroom. I give her a very cordial and proper half-bow, as I’m sitting, and she smiles, though it’s brittle and doesn’t reach her eyes. She snaps her fan at me, opening it with a flick of her hand, eyeing me. “I am Renata Lothrein,” she says, unnecessarily, and I nod.

“It is an honour to meet you. I’m Lady Cassia--”

“Of Ferelden, yes, I am aware. My husband does little but sing your praises this evening.”

I blush. “Oh...” I say, weakly. “That’s... awkward...” I blurt, and she pauses, giving me the strangest look, before bursting into actual laughter. I’m not sure how to take this, so I just sit there nervously, waiting for her to collect herself.

“I have heard it said that Fereldens prize honesty and forthrightness above all else. Is this so?”

“Indeed it is, signora. We believe that truth and honour are among the highest aspirations one can strive toward,” I agree cautiously, wondering where this is going.

She snaps her fan closed and drops the mask of civility, giving me a very cold eye. “Do you have designs on my husband this evening?” she asks, bluntly.

I blink, taken aback, then dart a quick glance around the room to ensure that there is no one close enough to overhear us. This, I was not expecting, but I have to honour her abruptness with candor of my own. I am careful to not move my mouth too much, so that my lips cannot be reliably read. “No, signora. In fact, I was hoping that by sitting here, I could avoid getting cornered by him in the garden, for I have no wish to break my vows to my own husband.”

She eyes me critically, then seems to decide I’m telling the truth. “Very well, then. I shall keep you under my eye.” I’m not sure if this is a good thing or a bad thing, but I nod anyway, and bide. Eventually, she looks over at me again. “It was you who brought the book, yes?” At my nod, she smiles brilliantly. “It has been long since I received a gift so thoughtful. How did you know?”

I blush, not sure how to take that, whether she’s lying or what. “Ah, when I sent my maid around to the estate, I asked her to find out what I might bring as a gift for you, to thank you for the hospitality.”

“Not for my husband,” she says pointedly, and I nod.

“That would be... inappropriate.”

She looks at me again, taking my measure, apparently finding me to be much different than she at first had assumed. “Is it not common to gift to the head of a household?” she asks and I grin.

“Ah, the way I see it, the man may own the holding, but he is not the one who runs the house.” She laughs at this, genuinely, drawing enough surprised flickers of attention from some of the other guests that I wonder if it’s a rare occurrence... and I’ve made her laugh twice now. Is that good? I hope that’s good.

The lady Renata is actually a rather sharp woman, very agile of wit and well cultured. It’s a pleasure to spend the next hour or so in her company as she seems to be content in mine, and this rather handily keeps Lothrein at frustrated bay. The last wine is served, the toast is made, and then the guests ready themselves for leave-taking. Renata pulls me aside, now apparently a good friend, and opens her fan, shielding her face as she whispers to me, “He will attempt to have you followed.” Snapping the fan closed again, she is gaily laughing, in the blink of an eye, as though she never said anything at all, and I smile back. “Do come again, dear, it was nice to meet you. Send your maid around again soon; we shall have lunch together, yes?”

And then Lels is there, thank the gods, with my cloak, and I am taking my leave, giving Lothrein an entirely appropriate curtsy, and this time he does not take my hand as he bows to me, properly. I steal a glance at Renata as I pass, and she winks.

Getting out of the estate is easy... shaking our tail, not so much, so I take us to the park, not quite sure what else to do, and not wanting to lead our spy back to the Warden base, which would tip our hand even more than it already has been, by revealing that the “Lady Cassia” is staying there, which would ring all the alarm bells at once. We don’t know for sure that they’ve connected the dots on who I am in regards to that alias, so hopefully taking some time to myself in the garden will be helpful.

Once we reach the soft grass, I sit down and take off my shoes and stockings, stretching my feet with a relieved sigh, then flopping backwards to stare up at the impossibly starry sky. I can pick out a few constellations now, which is a little bit of a relief. I can just pretend I’m in the other half of the world, kind of. Don’t have to be so far out of time, out of space. I mean, Ferelden is supposed to be in the southern hemisphere of the world anyway, right? So, I’m probably near the equator, only south of it. So there wouldn’t be the same constellations anyway right? Right.

Stop thinking about it.

“Tch. Woman. What am I to do with you, hm? I ask you to attend a party, and you seduce the host,” Zev murmurs, teasing, from right next to me, coalescing out of the shadows, and I jump with a startled gasp as he chuckles.

“I take it we are no longer observed,” Leliana says dryly, and Zev nods.

“Si, we should be getting back. I would prefer for us to be behind closed doors when things begin going awry.”

.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.

“Poison?” I ask, incredulous. “In what?” Oh gods, I ate a little bit of everything.

“On the cutlery,” he says blithely, his massage working upward over my ankles as I sit with my feet in his lap. He chuckles at my wide eyes. “Tch. Such eyes you give me,” he chastises gently, smiling. “The antidote was in the glasses, cara. You might have noticed that the more paranoid among the elite drink only from their own cups, yes?”

“That’s-- That’s brilliant,” Alistair says, honestly, stunned, and Zev nods.

“I cannot take all the credit for the idea, however, for it was Lily mia who told me of one such plot from her own land.” I feel my brow furrow. I did? Then it hits me - we spent a couple of days near that island, before we got here. So much happened after that, I totally forgot, but we spent an evening on the beach, and I remember now, I was telling him stories from home, and I mentioned this one book I read about how a noblewoman who hated her husband poisoned the wine but put the antidote in the well water, knowing that anyone who drank the wine would be okay because everyone but her husband, paranoid of poisoning, also drank water.

I blink. “At sunset!” I blurt, snapping my fingers, and Zev looks at me with an arched eyebrow.

“Si... you did not understand that part?” he asks, then laughs. “Ah, but it is just as well.”

“So... why was I there tonight? I don’t feel like I really learned anything useful.”

“Ah, no. You were there to showcase your innocence, my dear. It will be clear to everyone that you were unknown to all save Lothrein himself, and as you are not so good at keeping your thoughts off your face, it will have also been clear that you did not know any of those in attendance. So if you are entirely innocent, then you cannot have been involved in what will undoubtedly be an eventful - and ultimately final - evening for a very unfortunate seven, yes?”

So casual he is. It chills the blood.

“What about the necklace?” I ask.

“Proof against poison. I could not be sure that someone else would not take it into their head to slip something into your drink or food, aside from what was already there. I did not wish to take any chances. Anything that would sicken you will simply have no effect, and anything that would kill you will only make you sick. Useful, no?”

“Surely that is a highly sought-after prize,” Leliana says, “Else all the Crows would have one. Where did you come across such a thing?”

Zev only smiles enigmatically and shrugs. “From an old friend. It is merely on loan. I have been told that it shall not fall into the hands of the Crows, and was only able to come away with it on the strict promise that it would be only around the neck of Lily mia. Tomorrow, once we are certain that any poison you may have ingested has been neutralized, we shall go and return it. I have... other matters to attend to, as well. Speaking of which: Alistair, perhaps you will be interested to know that I have located a certain wayward Warden. I thought perhaps you would wish to deal with him yourself.” The grin that spreads across his face as Alistair’s darkens is positively evil, and it makes me shiver.

“Yes,” Alistair says, without preamble, “I believe I would.” I’ve never heard such coldness from him, and it strikes me in the heart.

He’s still alive? Oh man. Enzo is toast.

I might want a piece of him, myself.

That thought doesn’t scare me as much as it should. What am I becoming?


[Next Chapter]