Dragon Age: Tevinter Nights

by Patrick Weekes

  Teia didn’t know whether to hit or kiss him. “You stupid, silly, stubborn man. Tell me you have antivenin.”

  Viago lifted his right finger and pointed toward the leather case. Teia jumped to her feet. Inside the case were rows of vials labeled with charming but exceedingly unhelpful names such as Meet the Maker and the Snuff of Legends.

  “Which one is it?”

  From the floor, she heard incoherent gurgling.

  “Really, Vi?” Teia snapped. “You can correct me on your state of undress, but not a word on which vial will save your life?”

  This time her question was met with silence.

  “Vi?”

  Dropping back down to the floor, she checked his pulse. It was faint—dangerously so. If she didn’t find the antivenin soon, his heart and lungs would shut down.

  Cursing, Teia grabbed the case and continued the search. To her mounting frustration, not one vial simply said what it was. “If you survive this, we are definitely coming up with a sensible naming convention.”

  Finally, her hand stilled over one called Up and Adder. Teia winced. “I should let you die for that.”

  Picking up the vial, she returned to Viago’s side and lifted his wounded forearm. Bracing herself to suck out the venom, Teia took a couple of deep breaths, then hesitated.

  What if she was wrong? Teia knew how to properly coat a blade in deathroot extract, but her expertise primarily laid in killing people—not healing them.

  Viago’s breath deteriorated to a wheezing rattle.

  No time for second guesses, Teia told herself, and lowered her mouth to cover the inflamed skin. A vile mix of metallic and bitter flavors assaulted her tongue. Teia spit the infected blood on the floor and gagged.

  “The things I do for you,” she said with more worry than fire.

  Teia uncorked the vial, and after uttering a quick prayer to Andraste, poured its contents into the two small holes in Viago’s arm.

  * * *

  When Viago woke, it felt like someone had drained the blood from his body and replaced it with sludge. But it wasn’t all bad—someone who smelled like coffee and cinnamon was playing with his hair.

  “Water,” he croaked.

  The fingers stilled, and the surface beneath his head shifted.

  Something cool touched his lips. He extended his neck eagerly and almost fainted again as a steady stream of liquid passed over his chapped lips and traveled down his throat. It was delightfully cold.

  “Slowly,” Teia whispered. “You’ll drown yourself.”

  He took one last gulp, then heeded her warning.

  “How do you feel—on a scale of absolute shit to dying?”

  “Tolerable.”

  “Liar.” Her fingers resumed stroking his hair. It felt better than the water.

  It felt better than anything.

  They sat that way for a while, both dizzy with relief.

  “Don’t open the wardrobe,” Viago said finally.

  “But how will I get you a new pair of gloves?”

  He frowned. “The old ones will do.”

  “Or…” Teia dragged out the word hopefully. “You could go without. They didn’t save you from the adder. None of your precious ‘precautions’ did.”

  “Actually…” Viago preened. “My daily dose of Adder’s Kiss slowed down the venom. I’d be dead if not for that.”

  “You’d be dead if not for me,” Teia corrected.

  He swallowed—his throat thick with pride. “The adder—how did you know?”

  A shadow passed over Teia’s features. “Dante’s dead. Strangled in bedsheets like Prince Estefan.”

  She paused. Viago knew he should offer condolences—it was the polite thing to do—but he wasn’t particularly sorry about Dante’s fate. Instead, he filled in the blanks to allow Teia a moment to grieve.

  “And since his mistress died the same night, you thought the killer might also strike twice.”

  Teia nodded, glancing away.

  Don’t cry for him. Viago knew it was an unfair plea—silent or not. But Dante wasn’t worth her tears. No one is.

  “You clever, clever girl,” Viago whispered, raising his hand to stroke her cheek. His limbs still felt like they were saddled with sandbags, but it was worth the effort to finally feel the softness of her skin against his bare fingertips.

  She leaned into his touch, covering his hand with hers.

  “It’s my fault,” she confessed. “Earlier, I knocked Dante unconscious. It seemed like a good idea at the time—a quick getaway. I didn’t think about leaving him vulnerable.”

  “You’re not the one who snapped his neck.”

  He’d meant the statement to be comforting, but Teia cringed at the blunt description. “His neck wasn’t broken. He suffocated.”

  Adrenaline pumped through Viago’s veins, clearing the residual fog in his brain. “Prince Estefan’s neck snapped.”

  “I know,” she said, a little irritated. “There was bruising around Dante’s mouth and nose. The killer must’ve suffocated him by hand, then lowered him from the window. A long drop would’ve risked the sheet ripping.”

  He muscled his way to a sitting position. “You’re sure?”

  “I wasn’t there so not one hundred percent,” Teia answered, now clearly irritated. “But if the sheets ripped from him dangling there, then there’s no way they could’ve withstood a long drop.”

  Viago’s gaze settled on the gloves next to his bed. A feline smile spread across his thin lips. “Fetch my shirt. I know who did this.”

  * * *

  Viago and Teia hobbled together down the grand staircase. She could feel him trying to put most of his weight on that garish walking stick. Viago’s shirt was soaked through with sweat, but he refused to slow down or remove the jacket she’d draped across his shoulders.

  He’d also not foregone the gloves. Knowing what was to come, she could forgive him that.

  Their fellow Talons were in one of the villa’s three sitting rooms. Bolivar’s shrill voice echoed through the halls—leading them there like bread crumbs.

  “You can’t stop me!” he yelled as they opened the door. “I’m signaling the mainland and getting off this island. Pride’s not worth dying for.”

  “Shut up, Bolivar,” Viago groaned.

  Three pairs of eyes turned to greet them. Bolivar and Emil were standing at opposite ends of the room, while Caterina sat, calm and poised, in the middle. Despite the balmy temperature outside, someone had built a fire.

  Well, that’s convenient, Teia noted.

  “Maker’s breath!” Bolivar exclaimed upon seeing Viago’s haggard appearance.

  Emil stepped forward in a helpful gesture. He assisted Teia in settling Viago on the settee next to Caterina, who scrunched her nose and inched away. “Still alive. Good.”

  “We thought the worst,” Emil admitted.

  “Where’s your optimism?” Viago’s skin was corpse pale, but his eyes twinkled knowingly.

  “Dead,” Bolivar spat. “Like Dante and Giuli and Lera—and us if we don’t leave this cursed place.”

  “We’re not leaving,” Caterina said coolly.

  “I’m done listening to you, you old h—”

  “Then listen to me,” Viago cut in. “I know who killed them.”

  The room fell quiet. He made a show of staring each Talon in the eye.

  He’s drawing this out on purpose, Teia thought, her muscles twitching with anticipation.

  “Well?” Caterina said.

  Viago steepled his fingers together. Despite his pallor, he looked the part of a king in judgment.

  Teia watched the other Talons shift uncomfortably. She picked up the iron poker next to the fireplace and stoked the flames. In an interrogation, a little heat went a long way.

  Once visible beads of sweat were rolling down Bolivar’s forehead, Viago said, “I need everyone’s gloves.”

  The three exchanged confused glances, then looked to Teia for insight. She smiled ple
asantly.

  “Your gloves, please,” Viago repeated. He was practically giddy now.

  “What about her?” Bolivar asked, nodding toward Teia.

  “I’m not wearing gloves.”

  “Yes. Well,” the elf replied, flustered. “What are you going to do with them? These are expensive, you know.”

  “A simple test. You’ve nothing to fear,” Viago reassured. “If you’re innocent.”

  Bolivar was not reassured. None of them were.

  Teia’s patience began to fray. “Don’t you want to know who did this? Don’t you want to go home?”

  “Of course, but—”

  “Then hand over the gloves.” The Or I’ll make you was implied by her tone—and the red-hot poker in her grip.

  Caterina was the first to give in. She removed four heavy, jewel-encrusted rings, then slipped off the silk, elbow-length gloves underneath.

  When the men were hesitant to follow, she barked, “Do it.”

  Viago waited until all three held their gloves aloft. Then, with some effort, he pulled himself to his feet to collect each pair.

  “I assume Emil has appraised you of Dante’s demise?” he asked.

  “Strangled in bedsheets,” Caterina replied.

  “Not bedsheets.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Someone suffocated him first, then staged the scene to look like Prince Estefan’s murder,” Teia explained. “His nose was broken and there were bruises around his mouth. Finger-shaped bruises.”

  “Why go through the trouble if they were going to hang him?” Bolivar groused and reluctantly handed over his fur-lined gloves to Viago.

  “Because they knew the sheets wouldn’t hold,” Emil stated.

  With the gloves in hand, Viago limped over to the fireplace. Teia stood defensively between him and the other Talons.

  “What the killer didn’t know was that Dante’s lips were coated with an influencing serum that shines green in candlelight.” Viago stood in front of the fireplace with a smile that could cut metal. The flames licked up, hungry and waiting. “Whose shall I test first?”

  No one volunteered. Teia waited, her nerves raw. Blood would be spilt tonight. She could already smell it in the air.

  The silence was broken by a slow clap. “Bravo,” Emil applauded. “I should’ve killed you first.”

  He pulled the curved dagger from his jacket pocket and lunged forward, crossing the room in three strides. He swiped toward Viago, aiming for the jugular.

  Men. Always in such a rush. Teia deftly slid between Emil and Viago. Arching her back, she curled under Emil’s blade, then stabbed his boot—skin, bone, and leather—with the iron poker. His dagger clattered on the ground.

  “A gentleman like you should know better,” Teia purred, grinding the poker into the wooden floor. “Ladies first.”

  He didn’t scream like she expected. Old Crows were built of sturdy stuff.

  “I was saving you for last,” Emil snarled, blood oozing from the sole of his boot. “You really are my favorite.”

  Teia felt the knife before she saw it. It was a mean little thing. She twisted just in time for it to only graze her ribs.

  The other sleeve, she realized, too late.

  “Teia!” Viago cried.

  Emil’s hand shot out again—then faltered.

  A sickening crack echoed through the room as Caterina brought her cane down against Emil’s skull. He stumbled forward, blindly stabbing the air with his newly revealed dagger, but the poker held him in place.

  Caterina hit him again. This time square in the back. He fell to one knee, dropping the second blade.

  “Know when to bow out gracefully,” she sniffed, kicking both weapons away.

  Viago staggered over to Teia. He reached for the slash on her side, then caught himself and clenched his fist. She gave him a reassuring nod and fetched her blade from beneath her skirts.

  The remaining Crows surrounded Emil.

  “Always wondered if that cane hurt as bad as it looked,” Emil said.

  “What’s the verdict?” Caterina asked, positioning the cane’s handle next to his temple. “If you need a refresher, I’m happy to oblige.”

  Emil spit a molar onto the floor. “It’s spot-on.”

  “Why?” Bolivar asked. “Why would you do this?”

  “Money,” Caterina stated plainly. “It’s always money with Emil.”

  He choked out a pained laugh. “It’s always money with all of us. That’s the problem. In the beginning, we were protectors. We fought for Antiva—for the people. Then somewhere along the way we chose profit over patriotism.”

  “So, what? You’re killing us pro bono?” Viago sneered.

  “Not exactly,” Emil confessed. “The Qunari are coming. I was approached and presented a contract—an opportunity—for a peaceful invasion. In exchange for seven deaths, we could keep our way of life. They wouldn’t make us submit to the Qun.”

  “And you believed them,” Teia scoffed.

  Emil squared his shoulders. “The Qunari are many things—brutal, rigid, merciless warriors—but they are also honorable.”

  “There was no honor in Ventus,” Viago growled. “They pulled magisters from their homes. Clapped them in irons, destroyed their minds with poison, and paraded them through the streets.”

  “It would be different here,” Emil whispered, his conviction diminishing. “That’s why I made the deal.”

  Caterina hissed, “You made the deal so that you would be the only house left. No more sharing of contracts. No more territory disputes. The Kortez family would be the only family.”

  “Under one Talon, we might actually get something done.”

  Even Bolivar laughed at this. “The assassins of House Balazar, Valisti, and Arainai would never submit to you. You killed their Talons.”

  “Every life is worth a price. And I have the coin to pay it. We’re nothing but a glorified guild of mercenaries now.”

  Emil glared up at them, his body twisting awkwardly from being pinned down by the iron poker.

  He reminded Teia of the rabid dogs that roamed the docks of Antiva City. Their patchy, mangy fur smelled like wet leather and their snarls were mucus-filled warnings. She remembered, as a child, hiding in a tanner’s vat, knee-deep in watery dung, hoping the dogs wouldn’t smell the fresh bread she’d stolen from the market. Of all the things from her life before the Crows, it was those dogs that haunted her the most.

  They’d gone wrong.

  “Crows aren’t mercenaries, Emil,” she said, lifting her dagger. “We have standards. And you’re beneath them.”

  Following Teia’s lead, Viago, Bolivar, and Caterina all raised their blades. The steel glinted in the fire’s light.

  Emil spat again—a bloody, bubble-filled blob of saliva. “Go on, then.”

  As one, the Talons descended upon him. Sharp claws of metal rose and fell until each Crow got their pound of flesh.

  * * *

  The next morning, with Caterina’s permission, they signaled the mainland.

  Unsurprisingly, Bolivar was the first to leave. After disposing of Emil’s body, Caterina had tried to include him in discussions about the Qunari. With half her Talons dead, Antiva was more vulnerable than ever. But Bolivar refused to speak to anyone. He simply grabbed a bottle of wine and barricaded himself in his room until the boats arrived. Viago thought it was for the best. Bolivar didn’t have much to offer the war effort.

  Once Bolivar was gone and the bodies of the fallen had been brought to shore, the three remaining Talons settled in to plot a defense against the Qunari invasion. It was no longer a question of if but when they were coming and Antiva needed to be prepared for any time line. Killing four Talons was a mighty first blow, but the Qunari had made a grave mistake: they didn’t finish the job.

  After three days of talks, they had a plan. Caterina had spent the final night writing letters to the heirs of each house.

  “We’re going to have to remember a whole
new set of names,” Viago groaned to Teia as they watched three servants pack her trunks into a very top-heavy gondola.

  “Yes, that’s the real tragedy here,” she replied, rolling her eyes. “I hope the new Talons don’t feel we overstepped by having the summit without them.”

  “It’s not our fault their predecessors got themselves killed.” A servant approached to take the cage in Viago’s hand. “Careful,” Viago warned. “He bites.”

  “I can’t believe you’re keeping that snake,” Teia said, shaking her head. “It almost killed you.”

  “Which is more than any man can say. He deserves my respect. And a good home—with all the mice he can eat.”

  “But did you have to name it Emil?” Teia asked, making a face.

  “An homage. You’re always telling me to recognize my fellow Talons.”

  Teia sighed. “I only hope the real Emil acted alone. I’d hate to add more bodies to the pyre.”

  Viago grunted. “House Kortez is dead. Caterina will see to that.”

  “She’ll be fair,” Teia challenged.

  “She’ll be ruthless. Just like House Gaspari.”

  “Who?”

  “Exactly.” Viago smirked. “Mark my words—she’ll bring her demon of a grandson back from Tevinter to do the job personally.”

  A shiver passed through them both.

  “What did you call my grandson?” a voice behind them asked.

  Viago let out a nervous laugh. Caterina pushed past them to stare out over the water. Despite what had happened, she still stood with her back straight and her expression fierce.

  “What an absolute disaster,” she muttered.

  “We stopped him, Nonna,” Teia said, coming to stand next to her. “The Qunari didn’t win.”

  “Didn’t they?” Caterina asked, stealing the words from Viago’s mouth. “I’m not so sure.”

  “I am,” Teia stated, her bloodthirsty tone surprising them both. “We’re not going to grant these bastards a quiet death. We’re going to show all of Thedas why no one messes with the Antivan Crows.” She squeezed Caterina’s hand. “They are going to regret this, Nonna.”

  A faint smile graced Caterina’s lips. She patted Teia on the shoulder, then continued toward the dock.