Dragon Age: Tevinter Nights

by Patrick Weekes

A breeze rustled through the trees overhead. The sun peeked through the clouds to warm the back of Viago’s collar.

  “We should go with her,” he said, trudging forward.

  Teia snatched his walking stick and twirled it in the air.

  “Are you going straight home to Salle?”

  He sighed and shook his head. “Antiva City.”

  “To brief His Royal Fatherliness?” She balanced the stick on the tip of her boot.

  He reached for it. “Why are you asking?”

  With a kick, she flung the stick onto her other foot. “To see if you had a place to stay.”

  She held him with a brazen smile. He remembered the feel of her cheek under his fingers, of her hips against his.

  “Is that an invitation?”

  “Is that a yes?”

  He reached out again. This time, she let him have the walking stick, but held on to the end. Viago drew her close, until they were a breath apart.

  “It’s a definite maybe,” he murmured.

  Teia beamed up at him. “My favorite answer.”

  HALF UP FRONT

  JOHN EPLER

  It was the kind of place you went to be invisible. Perfect for the sort of business I was there to conduct. It was also about the only place I could go as an altus, even a former one, and drink without worrying about poison in the whiskey, or a dagger in the ribs.

  No signs advertised the bar’s existence. No barkers stood outside, no stylized ale casks hanging in front gave any hint as to its true purpose. A nondescript door, in a nondescript wall, in a nondescript quarter of Minrathous. It wasn’t the kind of place you stumbled across—either you knew about it and were there, or you didn’t and weren’t.

  Through the door, a narrow hallway and a set of stairs leading underground. A second door, propped open by a large piece of driftwood, opened into a large, low-ceilinged space. The walls were rough-hewn stone, the ceiling crisscrossed by smoke-stained wooden beams.

  Inside, a handful of mismatched tables, scattered against the walls. One chair, the seat pulled from a wagon. Another, the broken pews from an Andrastian chantry. Large rugs kept the floor warm, and in the middle of the room, a single magically animated piano, someone’s vain attempt at injecting a little additional class into the space, plinking away a sad little tune, off-key and discordant.

  There was no bartender—or at least, none that you ever saw. There was a large shelf, though, with two small doors and a basket. You put your coin in the basket and slid it through one door. And almost immediately, your drink came out the other side. No change—you paid the price to the copper. That seemed to be how it knew what to serve you. It was the sort of casual use of magic you got used to, living in Tevinter, but I still thought it was pretty impressive.

  The drinks shared the same haphazard air as the seating, coming in all variety of glasses, mugs, and alchemical equipment. The clientele was similarly eclectic, nobles and magisters sharing tables and conversation with commoners, mercenaries. The low murmur was muted—dissonant.

  I sipped my whiskey, my third of the night, and brushed a stray lock of long brown hair out of my eyes. I hated winter. The clothes were bulky and uncomfortable, and the dry air made a mess of my hair. But the warmth of the alcohol filled my belly, taking away the bitter edge of cold that had snuck in from outside. It snowed, but only lightly. Still, my least favorite time of year.

  Across from me sat the woman I’d come there to meet. She was dressed in a bulky, shape-obscuring robe and a thick winter hat that never left her head. And she didn’t drink. Or rather, she was drinking water, sipping it disdainfully. I’d taken an immediate dislike to her, but she’d offered me twice my usual fee. So I’d listen, hear her out. Decide where to go from there.

  She hadn’t given me a name. I hadn’t asked for one. That was how things worked. No names, only a place, a reason to be there, and half up front. We sat in silence for another minute, before she gingerly placed her glass on the table and leaned forward, steepling her fingers.

  “You come highly recommended, Magister Vadis. Your reputation precedes you.”

  I scowled. “Former. Altus. Vadis.” I spoke each word slowly, deliberately. Altus, not magister. I’d never been a magister—my father filled that seat for our family. And I’d left the nobility behind, so even altus was past tense. “My one rule is no names. You don’t know a damned thing about me.”

  She arched an eyebrow. “The disgraced daughter of Magister Mareno Vadis. Lover of an elven servant.”

  “Former servant,” I corrected her, a little more harshly than I’d intended. It was an important point. My romantic relationship with Irian Cestes had started after she’d left my family’s employ. Would’ve been weird, otherwise, and a little too Tevinter on my part to ignore the class dynamics in play.

  “Very well. Former servant. Your family saw scandal, gave you a choice. You chose her. I find that commendable, personally, but your father did not. So now you work as a thief.” She leaned forward. “I would never dream of revealing your identity. But I think it’s important that you know that my resources are … vast.”

  I glowered. I tried hard to keep my two lives separate. My father and I were no longer on speaking terms, but even so, an altus—even a former one—who moonlit as a master thief was the sort of thing that you didn’t want to get out. I didn’t like the idea of this asshole knowing so much about me. To hell with her.

  I drained my drink in a single swallow and put the empty glass on the table. I stood.

  “One thing you should know about me—I don’t take kindly to intimidation. We’re done here.” I started to walk away.

  “Intimidation was hardly my goal. I merely wanted to give you an idea of the information at my fingertips. However, I still find myself needing your help.” She gestured at my seat. “Please. Hear me out—I’ll pay you half your fee. Just for listening.”

  I glowered at her, but half my fee to have a conversation was tempting. I still had some savings, but by and large, my assets were less liquid than I preferred—except for those that were more liquid, like the thirty-year-old Ferelden whiskey in front of me—and I’d burn before I asked my father for help. Besides, it wasn’t like I had anything better to do. I sat back down. She reached into her satchel and pulled out a large piece of parchment tied with waxed string. She slid it across the table. I unrolled it and examined it.

  It was a rubbing of some sort, covered in runes. Old—really, really old. Before-Tevinter-existed old. Nothing I recognized, which wasn’t a surprise. Ancient lore wasn’t exactly my area of expertise—I made a note to ask Irian about it. I looked up. She gazed at me expectantly.

  “You are Andrastian, yes? A member of the Chantry in good standing?”

  “Feels like you already know the answer to that question,” I snarled, a little more forcefully than I’d intended.

  “Indulge me, please.”

  “Yes. I’m a dues-paying, Maker-fearing, old-gods-denying Chantry member. Good standing is another thing.”

  She shrugged. “But you don’t believe. Not truly.”

  I hesitated. It was a complicated question—and one I didn’t particularly feel like getting into with this client. I had the feeling, though, that she wouldn’t be satisfied with anything but the complete truth.

  “I guess I have some thoughts about the incompatible idea of a benevolent Maker and all the awful shit that happens here, yeah.”

  She nodded.

  “Then you know the significance of Dumat’s Folly.” She gestured at the rubbing I held in front of me. So that’s what it was.

  “Supposed to be a piece of the Black City itself. A ‘reminder of man’s hubris, and of the unique and glorious divinity of the Maker.’” I snorted. “Seems like a bunch of nug shit to me.”

  “Regardless. The artifact has been stolen. By who, I do not know. For what purpose, I do not know. But I would like you to find the answer to both questions. And for that, I will pay you triple your usual rate.”
<
br />   Well, now. That was unexpected. Dumat’s Folly was kept in the Archon’s palace. It was deceptively well guarded. Magical traps, around-the-clock armed guards. Easy enough to get in, but getting out was another story. One hell of a place to rob. I’d done a job there once, and it was the reason my left knee ached when it was cold. My professional curiosity was piqued.

  Still, this wasn’t something I wanted to get tangled up in. The Chantry was dangerous, powerful, and pissing off the Archon seemed like a good way to find yourself chained up in some slave ship or another, a one-way ticket to parts unknown. I shook my head.

  “Look, you want something stolen, I’m your woman. But this? It’s Chantry shit. Talk to the templars. Or the justicars.”

  “There are … aspects of the theft that suggest they may have had help from within. No. I cannot trust the Chantry or any of its agents. And it must be done in secret. None can know of your efforts.”

  I shrugged. “Then find a private investigator. I hear Neve Gallus is good. And she takes appointments.”

  “I do not require an investigator. I need a thief. And I had heard you’re the best—or close enough.”

  I didn’t react to the flattery. I knew I was good. “If you’re trying to figure out where that thing went, I’m not going to be much help.”

  “You misunderstand me. Finding out what happened to the artifact is only one part of the job. I also want you to steal it back.”

  So that was the game, then. And it explained why she didn’t want to go to the Chantry directly. Bored rich magisters, fighting over artifacts that they’d lock away in some vault after they got them. Status symbols, and nothing more.

  “And you have unique talents,” she added. “There are many thieves in Tevinter. There are very few who are also mages.”

  “Why a mage?” I was curious, despite myself.

  “Forgeries abound.” She slid a small wrapped package across the table. I opened it, picked it up. The edges were sharper than they looked, and I sliced my finger. I scowled and stuck the finger in my mouth. Wordlessly, she offered me a cloth, and I used it to wipe the blood away, before stuffing it in my pocket. Never a good idea to let someone else get ahold of your blood. Lots of nasty things that they could do with it.

  “A rune? What am I supposed to do with this?”

  “It is part of the artifact. Separated from it long ago. It has resonance with the whole—and it will allow you to discern whether what you hold is the real Dumat’s Folly. Touch it to the artifact when you find it. Channel energy between the two—and you will know if it is real.”

  I leaned back and sighed. I didn’t like stealing religious artifacts. Not even if I was just stealing it back. Too much baggage, and it meant getting involved in people’s faith.

  But hell. Professional pride was worth something. Someone had gotten in and out, with one of the Chantry’s most valuable artifacts to boot. And again, it wasn’t as if Irian and I were swimming in coin.

  “Fine. But I have a couple of conditions. One.” I held up a finger. “I do it my way. No bullshit from you. Two.” A second finger. “If I find out you’re playing me, this turns out to be some kind of setup, we’re going to have more than words. Three. I reserve the right to call this off at any time. Things start to feel weird, I’m out. Clear?”

  She nodded.“Of course.” She tossed me a small pouch she’d produced from somewhere. I opened it and blinked. It was stuffed with gold coins. More than she’d promised, and a lot more than the half up front I always asked for. “So. Do we have a deal?”

  That was it, really. Despite my posturing, I needed the money. More accurately, we needed the money. Minrathous was expensive, and Irian and I hadn’t found honest employment easy to come by. Being blacklisted by a magister, especially one as petty as my father, tended to do that.

  The client had me over a barrel. Saying no to this job wasn’t an option—at least, not a realistic one. I sighed.

  “Deal.”

  * * *

  “Again.”

  We stepped back, wooden staves held loosely. The room was big. A dining room for two dozen servants. The tables and chairs were shoved haphazardly to the side, and where they’d sat were weapon racks filled with training equipment. Wooden swords, blunted arrows, and various protective equipment. In the middle where we stood was a large circle, marked on the ground in chalk.

  Across from me, Irian Cestes, elven hunter and staff-fighting expert, waited, her pose relaxed but always ready; she seemed only moments away from springing into action. She sweated, lightly, and still looked almost perfect. I was soaked, and knew that the workout had me looking particularly filthy. My hair was tied back from my face with a leather strap, but it still kept falling limply into my eyes.

  I assumed the combat pose she’d spent the last three hours trying to teach me, knees slightly bent, staff held perpendicular to my body. Every muscle was sore, tired, but I kept at it. Bowing to each other, I started the pattern. Swing, swing, duck, swing. She caught each blow on her own staff, her movements effortless, bored. She sighed.

  “No, not like that. Like this.” The swing came unexpectedly, and I raised to block too slowly. It hit me just under the elbow, sending a jolt of pain up my arm, and my own staff clattered woodenly to the ground. Turning slightly, she reversed the direction of her swing, sweeping my legs out from under me and sending me tumbling.

  The point of her staff pushed under my chin, right at my throat. I grabbed it with both hands, twisting, and she lost her own balance, falling to the ground. I rolled and pinned her arms to the ground, smiling triumphantly. Right until her elbow caught me under the ribs and the breath whoofed out of me.

  She got to her feet slowly, gingerly, and reached out her hand to help me up. I waved off the assistance, slowly straightening, and gave her a pained smile to show her that there were no hard feelings. Just bruises.

  “I think it’s time to take a break.” She tossed her staff to the side and stretched. I got up and walked to the small table. I poured two glasses of water, offering one to Irian. It was our rule—whoever lost in practice took care of drinks. It had been 207 days since she’d needed to do so. Not that I was keeping track.

  She took it with a silent nod of thanks. I drained my own and poured a second one, pressed the cool glass to my forehead. She sipped from her glass slowly, watching me, her look equal parts affection and consternation.

  We’d known each other for years. She’d worked for my family as a servant, and we’d started to get close. But being from different classes had its own problems—no matter what, it would always cast a shadow over our relationship. So I’d found her a job somewhere else—a high-ranking post within the Magisterium—and we’d become more than friends.

  My father had been furious—more at losing her skills, I think, than at me, but still. So I’d been given a choice. Not a hard one, as it turned out, but my father had taken it personally, cut me off. I was fine with it. It was part of what made my relationship with Irian work—neither of us really gave a damn about what people thought.

  And it helped that she was an excellent combat instructor. As a mage, you already spent most of your time carrying around a big, heavy piece of wood. Might as well learn the best way to hit people with it. I poured myself another glass, drinking this one slowly, conscious of her eyes on me.

  “Something on your mind?” she asked, her tone casual. I shook my head, started to deny,and then sighed. Nodded. She knew me. Could see through my bullshit. Anything other than the truth was going to lead to an argument.

  “Just a client.”

  “The one who was going to pay double?” she asked, sitting down beside me. She started to rub my shoulders, gently at first, and then harder. I groaned. I was tense. Little bit from the training, little bit from the elf.

  “Yeah. Except she made it triple. Kind of an asshole. Could tell she thinks she’s smarter than everyone else.” She gave me a look and snorted. I ignored it, professionally. “Anyways. She wants
something stolen—well, sort of. Stolen back.”

  “What is it that she wants?” she asked, her fingers continuing to knead the tension out of my shoulders.

  “Mmm. That feels great.”

  She smiled. “Glad you like it. What was it she wanted you to steal back?” she repeated.

  “Dumat’s Folly.” The massage stopped. I opened my eyes and turned to look at her. Surprise was evident on her features. She ran a hand through her thick black hair, brushing a few damp strands out of her eyes, and shook her head.

  “But they keep that—I mean, it’s in the Archon’s palace. Remember the Pavus job?”

  “Every time it’s cold.”

  “How did they manage that?” she mused, her interest clearly piqued. “And why hasn’t—I mean, why steal that? It has no power. It doesn’t do anything.” I shrugged, my aching muscles protesting every moment of the gesture. I gave her a pointed look and nodded at her, hinting. She ignored it.

  “Turn it down. Last time you did a job there, you almost died.”

  I shrugged. “I twisted my knee. That’s a pretty long way from ‘almost dying.’”

  “It could’ve been a lot worse, and you know it.”

  “It’s a lot of money. Enough to finally, permanently, cut ties with my father. Enough to have our own life.”

  “That’s not it.”

  I narrowed my eyes. “Oh, yeah? What’s it about, then?” I made no attempt to hide the heat in my voice.

  She looked at me levelly. “Pride. That Pavus job. The Archon’s palace beat you—and now you want a chance to try again. Make up for your mistakes. Because you can’t stand not being the best.”

  “Like hell. This is about the money, nothing else. Three times my fee is a whole lot. Unless you’ve found some other form of gainful employment, this is how we keep from getting kicked out into the streets. And it’s damned cold out there.”

  “If it’s only about the money, then why aren’t you an altus? That kind of power, they pay you just for showing up. Why’d you get yourself kicked out, become a thief?”