Dragon's Era- No Man's Land

by Jacon Winfree

  Fergus waited, in amused suspense, already pleased to know that he would not have to be paying compliments to a woman he detested.

  "Saladin's married!" Alistair's grin broke forth like the sun. "He's done the deed and got married. Not in Redcliffe, because the Revered Mother wouldn't do it, but Saladin and his fair one went back to Rainesfere and were married there. Eamon's tearing his beard out."

  "Is there some objection to the lady?" Fergus forbore from smiling at the mental image of great gaps in Eamon's venerable beard.

  "That's just it! She isn't! I mean, she isn't a lady, or what Arl Eamon or Arlessa Isolde would call a lady. I like her, though. She's very nice, and I think she's beautiful."

  "You know her?"

  "Oh sure. I know her from the Blight, when we were in Redcliffe. Her name's Bella. She was barmaid at the local tavern. She has gorgeous red hair."

  Fergus' jaw went slack. First Delilah Howe running off with a shopkeeper, and now Saladin and his barmaid. Though, come to think of it, he could see Saladin knowing every barmaid in Ferelden very well indeed. But to marry her? After so many years of no noblewoman in Fereldan being able to catch his fancy? Was this some sort of mid-life fling? Was it all the years of submission to Eamon finally coming to a head?

  "They really are married?"

  "They are! Eamon's going to see what he can do about that, but Saladin's not helping. He really likes Bella, and I don't blame him! Eamon was pushing him hard to marry some nobleman's daughter or other, and Saladin finally pushed back!" Under his breath, he added. "And I don't blame him!"

  Fergus sat back in his chair and thought about it, trying not to laugh.

  Well that was the end of Saladin Guerrin, Arl of Denerim. The Landsmeet, full of furiously disappointed women and their menfolk, would never approve him for the title. They might have to grudge him Redcliffe someday because of his blood right, but Denerim? Never. Not with a barmaid Arlessa. It would never happen. Fergus wondered if the girl knew what she was letting herself in for. No wonder Eamon was furious. Fergus thought about other aspects of the alliance, savoring the moment. Compared to a Redcliffe barmaid, Freya Mac Tir, whose birth Eamon had scorned, was the Empress of Astrid.

  "I wonder how Saladin's lady will get on with her sister-in-law."

  At that, Alistair squirted wine out his nose.

  The elderly mage, by name Wynne, entered the room to find two grown men sniggering like teenagers. With a look of mild rebuke, she told Fergus, "Your lady is sleeping peacefully. She was badly dehydrated, but a good night's rest will set her up. I have left some notes with her ladies as to her diet. The other lady, Mistress Potts, is resting too. I'm rather concerned about her, but quiet and good food will help. She told me that her husband was killed by the darkspawn. A terrible thing to see."

  "Yes, of course," Fergus agreed, sobering somewhat.

  She was very reproving. "I cannot think it was a good thing to bring either of them on such a voyage."

  "Perhaps not," Fergus replied, "but the last time I left a wife behind, she was murdered."

  "Point taken," declared Alistair, trying to thump his fist on the table for emphasis, but missing the edge. He tried again.

  Fergus bit back a grin. "As for Mistress Potts, I could not leave her to her fate. I am very obliged to you, Madam, for you kind attention. May I offer you some wine?"

  "It seems that quite enough wine has been drunk this evening..." She relented, "but it does smell so very good. Is that Antivan wine? Ah..."

  "Mistress Potts?" smirked Alistair.

  "Yes," said Fergus. "Her husband's name was Albert Potts. An Amaranthine shopkeeper. Rendon Howe, wherever you are, know that your only grandchild is the son of Albert Potts."

  "Your Grace!" gasped Wynne, "Surely you're not mocking that poor lady's husband!"

  "Not at all," Fergus assured her, "We're mocking that poor lady's father, Rendon Howe."

  "Rendon Howe? Really? Oh, in that case..."

  They drank and chatted a little more, until Wynne told Alistair outright that it was time for him to go home and go to bed.

  Sulking only a little, the King stumbled to the door, thanking Fergus for his wine, and promising to summon Gerod Caron to Denerim immediately.

  "I'll find out what's what," he promised, tapping himself drunkenly on the side of the nose. "No secrets among Grey Wardens."

  Something else occurred to Fergus, and as the servants brought the King's cloak, he asked the question.

  "Your Majesty..."

  "Alistair!"

  "Alistair... when you were in Arl Eamon's household, did you ever hear about or see a woman named Marjolaine?"

  "Marjolaine!" Alistair bellowed. "I haven't thought about her in months. I know Marjolaine. Knew Marjolaine," He snickered. "Never saw her at Arl Eamon's though. She was right here in Denerim before the horde marched. She tried to have us all murdered on the road, because Wanda knew what she was back from her bard days. Shouldn't have crossed us."

  "She's dead, then?"

  "Oh, yeah, Pretty completely dead. Had a house in the market near the Chantry. Told us that Ferelden smells like wet dog... " He smiled, red-faced with wine and satisfaction. "Dead.

  Chapter 14: The Last Cousland, Part 3

  Finding the house of the mysterious Marjolaine was not particularly difficult. Fergus sent one of his trusted men to nose about the rapidly rebuilding Market, talking to the survivors as they struggled to pick of the pieces of their lives.

  "The Orlesian woman? Lives right over there. Haven't seen her for awhile," said a half-starved widow. "Maybe she was travAstridg on business. Maybe the darkspawn got her. They got a lot of people here. My boys and me only made it 'cos we've got a deep cellar with a good thick trapdoor."

  Following up the lead, Fergus'clerk checked the property records, and discovered that the house belonged to the Arling of Denerim, now in confusion and dispute due to the lack of an incumbent. That particular property was rented to one Marjolaine Bujold, merchant. The rent appeared to be in serious arrears, but the Arling's accounts were so disordered—and yet still so rich, due to a large infusion of Tevinter gold—that no one had pursued the matter. Then the clerk did a bit more digging into the records, and found that the tenant had never actually paid rent at all, but had been permitted use of the house as a perquisite "for services in kind." There was a notation from Rendon Howe that the arrangement was to continue. Anyone perusing the accounts would assume, as Fergus' clerk did, that Marjolaine Bujold was one of the Arl's mistresses.

  The King had said nothing about Marjolaine's papers. She must have had a trove of correspondence. Perhaps the Wardens had gone in, killed the woman in revenge and then left, taking nothing but some obvious valuables. The only way to find out would be to search the house himself.

  That proved not so quick to arrange. The steward appointed to oversee the business affairs of the Arling was overwhelmed and overworked, and Fergus did not want to call a great deal of attention to the matter. A casual request to rent the house near the Chantry for the convenience of some of his servants was met courteously, but with the warning that it would take some time. There was a current resident, who had certain rights, and who must be given time to reply to the official notices. Fergus felt it would be impolitic to publicly declare that he knew for a fact the woman had been murdered by their new King.

  He did not want to involve Alistair at the moment. He had no idea what he might find, and no idea how Alistair might react to a political attack on his closest adviser. Granted, Alistair's own words revealed a deep ambiguity of feAstridg, but the habit of respect and obedience was long-established. For that matter, he did not trust Alistair to keep such a secret. And it was incredibly suspicious that an associate of the bard Marjolaine should just be happening to be travAstridg with Eamon's protege Alistair during the Blight. Who was this Wanda? There had been a pretty redhead at the celebratory Landsmeet. Fergus had been introduced to her, but had overheard
her speaking to someone else and had caught the accent. He had not quite realized who she was at that time. How had she insinuated herself into the Warden's party. Was it Eamon's idea? Or Isolde's? Or an Orlesian scheme?

  Perhaps he should just break in to the house some night, though he had little idea as to how to go about it. He was no sneak thief, and while he had engaged a locksmith in Highever, the man was not here, and anyone hired on such a business might well talk. Breaking down the door was probably impractical as well.

  Thus he was stymied for the time-being, and meanwhile, people began pouring into Denerim. Some were refugees who had taken the south road out of Amaranthine, and many were nobles, wild to distinguish truth from rumor. Bryland, who had been in South Reach, was one of the first to arrive, wanting to see how Habren was getting on for himself. He, too, was shocked and horrified to hear of the destruction of Amaranthine. The news was spreading like the fire that had consumed the city itself. Chancellor Arl Eamon of Redcliffe entered the city next, in great state, though without his brother. When people were not talking about Amaranthine, they were agog over Saladin's shocking misalliance. Two days later, the Commander of the Grey arrived in Denerim.

  Caron did not come alone: with him were two companions. Oghren Kondrat, cheerfully ready to drink the town dry, and Nathaniel Howe. Fergus was not impressed at their delay. It might indeed be that they had pressing duties, but at the moment the dilatory response to the King's summons looked like the worst kind of arrogance.

  He knew about the Grey Wardens' arrival, because the King called him to the Palace right away to a meeting of the revived Privy Council. Somehow, Alistair had learned that there was such a thing as a Privy Council, which was traditionally composed of the high nobles of Ferelden: the teyrns and arls, plus the Chancellor of the Realm, and sometimes the Grand Cleric and the Warden-Commander. The Warden-Commander, of course, would now have to always be included, as he also bore the title of Arl of Amaranthine. At any rate, it was a small group that met, since Freya was still in exile in Gwaren, and there was no Arl of Denerim. Thus it was the King, Fergus, Bryland, Wulffe, Eamon as both Arl of Redcliffe and Chancellor, and Caron. Howe and Oghren also were called in, as Alistair wanted to hear their reports. Elsewhere in the Palace, Lord Eddlebreck waited in a comfortable parlor until he was called to give testimony. Alistair had already heard it once, but everyone on the council must know what the old man had to say. Delilah Howe waited with him.

  "My friends," Eamon began smoothly. "We are here to discover the truth—"

  Fergus interrupted. "This is the King's Privy Council. The King presides."

  Eamon turned a dull red. "His Majesty prefers that his Chancellor—"

  Bryland pointedly ignored him and turned to Alistair. "Your Majesty, we are here at your command. Your opinion is the one we want, not words filtered and censored by the Arl of Redcliffe."

  Alistair was unspeakably embarrassed, and waved his hands, hoping the awkward moment would just go away.

  "It's your right, Your Majesty," Wulffe urged him kindly. "It's just the few of us here. It's good practice for facing the Landsmeet."

  Eamon protested. "Maric often allowed Loghain to preside at meetings of the Privy Council—"

  And that was just absolutely the wrong thing to say.

  "Well," Alistair said, pulling himself together, his mouth tight, "then we certainly don't want to do anything the way Loghain did! I'll take over, Arl Eamon, thank you." He looked around the table, grimaced, and then took a deep breath. "All right. We're here to sort out what happened in Amaranthine. Warden-Commander, please tell us what happened from the time you arrived at Vigil's Keep until today."

  Fergus sat back, pleased at the success of their uprising. Eamon was glared at him, making no attempt to conceal his anger. Fergus gazed back with polite interest, and refused to look away before Eamon did.

  Caron told his story with a soldier's bluntness. Fergus did not think he was lying, but he was certain that some details were being withheld. Watching from the corner of his eye, Fergus could Oghren shifting restlessly at certain points in the narrative. Nathaniel was harder to reader; a more practiced liar and deceiver, perhaps, or more convinced of his commander's causeêor simply more disciplined. Caron insisted that what he had done was necessary: without the Wardens at Vigil's Keep, the darkspawn would have spread over the entire arling, and then to Ferelden as a whole. They had been decisively defeated in their attack on Vigil's Keep, which then enabled the Wardens to pursue the leaders of the assault to their lairs. The Architect and the Mother were dead, and posed no further threat. A further description of what the Mother was, and had been, made quite the impression.

  Oghren and Nathaniel were also asked for their reports. Nathaniel had not been at Amaranthine the day it burned, but had been present at the confrontations with the Architect and the Mother. His account added some disturbing and horrific details to those creatures. It was clear that the Architect had posed a unique threat—primarily to Grey Wardens, in which he had some sort of specific interest that Howe was dancing around. As for the dwarf, who had been present at the burning of the city, he clearly knew how to make a proper report, and how to support his commander, but he had been drinking heavily, though it was still early in the day.

  Bryland asked him outright, "Did you agree with your commander's assessment of the situation at Amaranthine? Do you agree with his decision to burn the city?"

  Oghren grunted dismissively. "Not for me to question orders," he rumbled. "It's for me to get in there and kill darkspawn. I saw his point. There weren't many of us, and if we were killed, the rest might not have been able to hold out at the Keep. Anyway, what's done is done. The Architect's dead, and that thing, too."

  Caron interrupted at this point. Fergus sensed that there was some disagreement between him and the dwarf, and he did not want it aired here. "As Warden Oghren says, it's done."

  "Why couldn't you have stopped them at the city?" Wulffe asked. "Amaranthine's walls are thick."

  Caron shrugged. "The darkspawn had already invested the city. The darkspawn appear to have used a smuggler's tunnel and cavern that led from a building outside the walls to a tavern just north of the Chantry. Do not blame me, but Bann Esmerelle, for not repressing crime in her city."

  "Then I don't understand," Bryland said sweetly, "why you thought buring the city would be effective. Could not the darkspawn simply retreat to this underground cavern, leaving the people to burn? Did you investigate this cavern afterward?"

  "We did," Caron snapped. "We destroyed the last of the darkspawn there. As I say, it was all entirely due to the carelessness of Bann Esmerelle."

  "Speaking of Esmerelle," aid Fergus. "Where is she? Was she in the city? Did she ask you for help?"

  Caron eyes fixed on him, staring, blinking rapidly. Nathaniel was perfectly still, but Oghren was trying to catch Nathaniel's eye. They clearly knew something. Caron said, "I have no knowledge as to Bann Esmerelle's whereabouts. It could be that she perished defending the city."

  Fergus was almost certain he was lying about that, but decided not to pursue the matter, since he truly did not care what had happened to her. He would happily replace her with a man or woman of his own choosing. What was important here was that Caron really did have things to hide.

  "If she did," Fergus said, "we can but hope to find her body and give her proper rites, as we will the rest of the unfortunates who were caught between you and the darkspawn. I have a witness who says that you refused to permit any escape from the South Gate, forcing terrified people back to their deaths by fire or darkspawn. Not all of the citizens are dead, you know. A few hundred survived and are very, very angry and disgusted with you."

  At those words, Nathaniel Howe looked strained and wretched. He had not been at Amaranthine the day Caron ordered it burned. What did he think about his sister being left to die? The dwarf, who had been present, simply looked grim.

  Caron shrugged off Fergus' rema
rks. "I cannot concern myself with the complaints of peasants. The darkspawn are destroyed. My success speaks for itself."

  "All the darkspawn?" asked Bryland. "Every one of them? No more of these talking creatures exist?"

  Reluctantly, Caron admitted, "I cannot claim that. There may be bands roaming the forests and marshes. The Grey Wardens will hunt them down and destroy them."

  "Yes, I know about those bands," Wulffe growled. "Plenty of them in West Hills. Plenty all over the south. We knew about them. So why do we now have them up north too? Is there any truth to the rumor that the darkspawn hit Amaranthine because they were attracted there by the Grey Wardens? Because the darkspawn can sense Grey Wardens?"

  Alistair was fidgeting and blushing. Fergus knew instantly that it was true. A Grey Warden secret, revealed by the King's embarrassment.

  "Absolutely not! That is a lie!" Caron laughed harshly. "Old women's tales for old women!"

  Wulffe jumped to his feet, eyes blazing. "Don't you call me an old woman, you Orlesian whoreson!"

  "Whoa!" shouted Alistair, alarmed. "Let's not start calling names. Arl Wulffe, I'm sure that the Warden-Commander wasn't trying to insult you..."

  "No," Wulffe replied heatedly, "He wasn't trying. He did insult me!"

  Caron smirked. "How do they say it in Ferelden? If the shoe fits—"

  "That's enough!" Alistair snapped, breathing heavily. He glared at Caron. "You're not helping. You need to apologize right now."

  The Orlesian gave an elaborate bow. "Your pardon, my lord."

  "He needs to apologize to the people he murdered," Bryland muttered. Growing more angry, his voice rose. "He needs to apologize for destroying a major Fereldan city out of sheer incompetence!"

  "How dare you!"

  Eamon interposed, his face grey with strain. He must know that this disaster could ruin him politically. "This city no doubt is damaged, but hardly destroyed—"

  "I was there four days ago," Fergus said coldly. "And it was a smoking ruin then. Refugees too frail to leave were huddled on the beach, without food, shelter, or protection, prey to weather, beasts, and thugs. What have you done for the relief of your people, Arl of Amaranthine?"