"I'll search him," he said, jerking his head toward the the bloody mess on the floor. "Then I can throw him down into the cellar with the rest."
That was surprisingly cold. Well, perhaps not so surprising from a Howe... Still, it was clear that Nathaniel had learned more than dancing and deportment during his time in the Free Marches.
"This one isn't dead," Fergus told him. "I think perhaps we should have a talk with him."
There followed perhaps not the proudest moments of his life. Fergus and Nathaniel learned where the leader of the Crows in Denerim could be found, but not the name of the client who had taken out the contract on the Teyrn of Highever. Afterwards, the trap door to the cellar was lifted, and two more bodies joined the pile at the bottom of the ladder.
"It doesn't matter," said Fergus. "I think the letters will tell me what I want to know. Let's get out of here." He glanced anxiously out at the dark little street. A shutter opposite them was cautiously creaked open, and then slammed shut. No one wanted to get involved, apparently.
* * *
Highever House was silent when they returned. A sleepy servant let them in, yawning.
"Her Grace has retired for the night."
"Yes, of course. I'm going my study. Please bring us some mulled wine, and summon Captain Farron."
He felt like the day had lasted forever, but it was not over yet.
Nathaniel nodded. "It's best to deal with them now."
They drank their wine and fortified themselves with apples and cheese, and when the captain came, Fergus gave him precise instructions as to where they were going, just how dangerous the people in the house would be, and what sort of surprises might be waiting for them. He had tried to be discreet before, and it had nearly got him killed. He was going to handle the Crows in force, and rely on his legal privileges as Teyrn.
"Ignacio is to be taken alive if possible. If not possible, too bad. We'll search the place for the man's papers. Bring ten reliable men who know how to keep their mouths shut. This man's minions tried to kill me earlier tonight. I want him stopped."
A brisk salute. "It will be done, my Teyrn!"
There was time to read the wretched letters before the men were ready. Nathaniel pointed to the packet Fergus was holding. The seal of Redcliffe was quite easily identifiable.
"He was the one?"
"So it seems. It's all come together."
"All right. While you're reading them, I'll look through these. Arl Urien...Harwen Raleigh? ...Duke Prosper de Montfort... how's your Orlesian? Oh... I think this is this one's the Empress' spymaster. Interesting."
Fergus hardly heard him. He was reading with painful intensity, eyes tracking each letter, each word, each line.
"...You must play on this man's insecurities and petty jealousies. Nothing is so bitter as a friendship turned to hate. Despite his vows of friendship with Bryce Cousland, he has always been second to him. His intense disappointment over the failed election has made him restless and dissatisfied. To believe himself a kingmaker and the next Chancellor, and then to lose it all? It will not be hard to make him believe that Cousland feels similarly disappointed. However, what Howe will not endure is any complicity with Astrid. That is his weak spot..."
The letter went on, long-winded, full of platitudes and self-satisfied, unnecessary advice. Fergus pushed it away, not protesting when Nathaniel picked it up and began scanning it, his face growing darker with every word. Here was the answer. The man who wrote the letter had reached out, and in secret, through catspaws and puppets, had killed his little son, had killed Oriana, had killed his sister, and had killed his parents. Had he hated them? Or was it "nothing personal:" just a taste of what they called "the Great Game" in Astrid? The idea sickened him even more than Rendon Howe's soured ambition. Of course, the plot had also swept away the Howes, the oldest noble family in Ferelden. Why not? the Guerrins would appear all the greater without Couslands or Howes in the land. Two for one, one might say.
And now, what could Fergus do with the answer?
His first impulse was to call the man out, denounce him in front of the Landsmeet, and duel him to the death. That was a pipe dream, of course. Eamon would choose a champion, probably his brother Saladin. Fergus had no evidence whatever that Saladin was a party to any of this, and had not the least desire to kill the man. In fact, what he vastly preferred was Eamon dead and Saladin as Arl of Redcliffe. He was Eamon's only heir at the moment, if one discounted Isolde's unborn child. Fergus was inclined to do that: the Arlessa had had numerous miscarriages, and there was no guarantee whatever that she would carry this child to term, most especially since she was well known to reject magical healing.
An outright assault on Eamon would make the rest of the Landsmeet nervous. They would think—not without cause— that Fergus was challenging Alistair's right to the Crown. The last thing Ferelden needed at the moment was another war of succession.
That was another issue to struggle over. What was his duty here? He truly did not believe that the pleasant but feckless Alistair had any blood right to the throne of Ferelden whatever. Very likely he was indeed Eamon's own bastard, cynically used and abused all his life, the likeness concealed by Eamon's long and flowing beard. Or perhaps Alistair resembled a blonde mother. Even if he were King Maric's natural son, his mother was a servant, of no noble blood. Natural children had never taken precedence over legitimate heirs in Fereldan law. If Alistair's mother was an elf, the young man would have no right even to inherit any sort of real property. In fact, by all legal precedents, Fergus was the rightful King of the realm. Was he betraying his duty in not pursuing the legitimate succession?
"He should be killed!" snarled Nathaniel, rousing Fergus from his thoughts.
"Yes, he should be," Fergus agreed, "though I'm not sure that it's the best course of action in this case. He's the King's Chancellor, after all, though not for much longer."
"You're... just going to let it go?" Nathaniel asked, furious.
"Of course not. One thing at a time, though." He took a breath. "Killing him is just... too good for him. It lets him off easy. I've no desire to harm Saladin, either, who seems entirely innocent of it all, though frankly, if I have to, I'll kill him a duel if Eamon tries that tactic. Really, I'd rather leave Saladin alive because his recent marriage has got to be causing Eamon near-lethal embarrassment, and I'm all for that."
"Saladin's married? To whom?"
"A red haired Redcliffe barmaid named Bella," he said, his face suspiciously straight. "The King thinks she's very pretty."
Nathaniel's brows rose to his hairline. "A barmaid?"
"A barmaid," confirmed Fergus, with deep and holy satisfaction. "I don't want Eamon dead. I want him alive and suffering over the humiliation of it all. Very likely the future Guerrin heir will be a barmaid's son. Isolde is pregnant, but she might well miscarry again. Even if she does not, her only living child proved to be a mage. I like the idea of the Guerrins being a scandal. If I can make the head of the house a disgraced, powerless scandal as well, perhaps that might be a fitting revenge: one that would not harm the entire country, or plunge it into civil war."
Nathaniel shook his head. "It's not enough. Not nearly enough. He's destroyed the Howes as well as the Couslands."
"I don't revenge myself on the innocent. I would no more blame Saladin than I blame Delilah... or you. I certainly wouldn't stoop to harm Isolde's unborn child, though Eamon had no scruples about killing my son. Eamon will lose the Chancellorship, of course, and if I have my way, he'll retire to Redcliffe and never show his face at Court again."
"It's not enough, Fergus. He needs to be taken out of the game altogether, or he'll find a way to weasel back into power. The King will protect him."
"He can't protect him from this."
The captain returned. It was time to hunt Crows.
* * *
Ignacio was a well-known figure in the Denerim market. His nephew, Cesar, dealt in Antivan imports,
including rare poisons. The Crow cell here did not seem to be large, based on the modest size of the house. Nathaniel's assistance was beyond price, as he pointed out the access points and unlocked the doors.
The old Crow Master made an impressive last stand, but was overwhelmed by sheer numbers. Cesar died, too, blood bubbling from his throat. The rest of the fight was something of an anticlimax, for there were only five other people in the house, and two of them were terrified elven servant girls from the Denerim Alienage. Those two Fergus released, giving them a few coins, and telling them to go home and not dawdle in the streets. They were off and running in a flash, glad to escape. The City Guard never made an appearance. They might be stretched just too thin, or maybe the sounds of a major conflict made them reluctant to interfere. Fergus was both relieved and concerned at the same time.
Two of the Crows surrendered, and Fergus was loath to murder them in cold blood, as they were quite young and had not attacked him personally. Instead, he took them into custody, and then the premises were searched. The Crows had been busy in Denerim. Rendon Howe had made extensive use of them, but was not alone. Fergus had years of blackmail material here, if he ever cared to use it. The contract for the life of the Teyrn of Highever was found among the rest of the paperwork, neatly filed. Habren was marked for death as well, but her murder was to be carried out discreetly, in childbirth, when a subtle poison would take her life and the child's. The client's signature was there, the last link in the chain of malice and murder.
Nathaniel went back to his quarters in the palace, brooding. There was just time enough for a few hours sleep, and then Fergus must have all his wits about him for the revenge he planned. More people than the guilty would suffer, but that was the way of the world.
His plan required that more than two people know the truth. Thus, when Bryland called on them to check on Habren, Fergus called him in, showed him a letter from Marjolaine to Howe, a letter from Marjolaine's patron to Marjolaine, and then the Crow contract. The case was quite clear.
Bryland was bitter and furious, and sick with horror to read of the plans for Habren, but he saw all the same problems that Fergus did.
"If you take this to the Landsmeet, it will tear the country apart."
"I know that. I intended to take the evidence to the King."
Bryland shook his head. "I don't think that's a good idea, Fergus. The King will likely have you killed on the spot to silence you. This calls into question his very claim to rule..."
"Oh, I don't think he'll kill me. That would ultimately destroy him. Besides, I haven't let anybody kill me yet."
"I hardly trust that young's man judgment," the older man said acidly. "He likely wouldn't think about the consequences."
But Fergus felt fairly confident. "No. He won't try to kill me. Not now. Maybe if this had happened in a few years, when he'd developed a taste for power, but not now. And his feAstridgs are conflicted about Eamon already. Do you know that he was consigned to the stables as a child? Yes, really. That's what our young king says. Raised in the stables, and dumped on the Chantry once the arlessa bore a legitimate heir."
Bryland pursed his lips, finding that serious food for thought. Still, he said, "Don't go alone. Take someone with you."
"I'm taking Nathaniel," Fergus told him. "He has a bitter grudge, too. Just to be certain, however, the rest of the letters are in my desk. If anything happens to me, take charge of them."
The next stop was the Palace.
The King greeted him in something of his usual friendly way, though there was a certain wariness. Perhaps Fergus' angry denunciation of Warden Caron had upset the King. Perhaps it was the presence of Nathaniel Howe, who, it must be admitted, strongly resembled his father—or at least a young, attractive, and broad-shouldered version of him. Perhaps it was something else.
"I beg the favor of a private audience, Your Majesty."
"Er... well... Eamon thinks... er..." His voice trailed off, and he fidgeted. "With him, too?" He asked, gesturing at Howe. It was unbelievably rude, but perhaps a man raised in a stable knew no better. Nathaniel gritted his teeth. but fortunately remained silent.
"Yes," Fergus said calmly. "With Warden Howe—formerly Lord Nathaniel Howe. He has some interest in the documents I wish to show Your Majesty."
"Well... maybe... Oh, all right. Let's go up to my private parlor. It's my favorite room."
It was a room Fergus had been in many, many times, since Cailan, too, had been fond of it: a very comfortable room, paneled with silkwood, and with a large and handsome fireplace that warmed the room even to the corners. Alistair also favored the chair that had been Cailan's choice. This had been Cailan's playroom and schoolroom once, and Fergus well remembered his thrilling first visit at the age of six, when it was littered with toy horses and wooden swords. Later, it had been Freya's playroom, too, after she had come to Denerim to be the young prince's betrothed and constant companion. Nathaniel had played here, part of a noisy mob of noble children, quite a few of whom were now dead. Many memories haunted this room, but Alistair, of course, was ignorant of them all.
The young king's discomfort was palpable, as he took refuge behind his wine goblet. Fergus though he had better clear the air at once.
"What's wrong, Your Majesty? You seem very uneasy. Have I done anything to grieve you?"
"No... you were pretty hard on Caron... Look here, does he really have to be here?"
Nathaniel, flushing, immediately gave Alistair a curt bow. "I shall take my leave at once, Your Majesty." To Fergus, he said, "I'll wait outside, Your Grace."
"Thank you, Warden," Fergus said, trying to conceal his irritation. Once the door closed, he turned to the king, and said, "Very well, Alistair. We're alone. Please tell me what's troubling you."
"Well... Eamon says you think you should be King." The young man shrugged. "Maybe you should be. I certainly never wanted it."
"Did Eamon give you any particular reason for me thinking such a thing?"
"He said your father was almost elected king instead of Cailan."
"Did he explain the reason why my father was even considered eligible?"
"Well... no... not exactly."
It was like speaking to a sulky child. He took a deep breath. "Perhaps I can. The Couslands are the closest in blood to the Theirins, since all the Vorics—King Maric's father's family—are deceased. My father and King Maric were second cousins. My great-grandmother was a sister of King Brandel. Has no one told you this?"
"We're cousins?" Alistair asked, his face brightening. "That's great! I've never had any family. I guess you really do have a better claim than a bastard."
"The lawyers could debate that, but the last thing this country needs is another civil war. Couslands always do their duty, and my duty, as I see it, is to see that Highever and all of Ferelden recover from the Blight. If Eamon has been speaking against me, it's because he has personal reasons. He's long been an enemy of the Couslands."
"Politicians always have enemies. I'd rather hear about how we're related."
Fergus was annoyed at the digression, but explained in detail the intertwined family trees of the Theirins, Couslands, Vorics, and Guerrins. If Alistair were by some chance King Maric's, they would indeed be third cousins. If he were Eamon's or Saladin's, for that matter, they were also related, though much more distantly. He said nothing of that, of course, since he really had no idea who had fathered Alistair.
"So if anything happened to me, you'd be the heir?"
"Yes. I'm the heir-presumptive. until you marry and have children of your own." He let Alistair mull that over, and asked, "What about your mother?" Fergus asked. "What was her name? What do you know about her?"
"Nothing, really. I don't know her name. I never thought to ask Goldanna."
Goldanna, it was revealed, was the name of his older half-sister, a laundress in the market district: a woman with five children.
"But she was really nasty to me," Ali
stair confided. "She thought that I'd died with my mother in childbirth. That's what the people at Redcliffe told her. Totally a bitter shrew. She said they gave her a coin and drove her away. I was hoping for a family reunion, but she was really angry about my 'fancy armor,' and I think she just wanted my money. She acted as if our mother dying was my fault!"
"That's not an uncommon reaction. She must have had a very hard time. What have you decided to do for her?"
"Do?" Alistair was honestly baffled. "Nothing! I haven't heard a word from her. Maybe she was killed in the battle."
"What about her children? Your nephews and nieces?"
Alistair threw up his hands. "Don't know." He threw Fergus an uneasy glance. "Maybe I should look into it."
"Yes, you should," Fergus said, trying to sound calm and neutral. The king's callous indifference to the fate of his blood relations—children— rather sickened Fergus. It made him reassess his prior opinion of their young king, and not at all favorably. "Your sister may be unpleasant, but you might find her children very grateful. Have the guards ask some questions. Anyway, so your sister said she thought you were dead? She didn't tell you anything about your mother?"
"Just what I already knew. She was a servant at Redcliffe castle, and she caught the King's eye. Goldanna was mad about that, too. That's all I know. My mother was some sort of starstruck servant girl. Goldanna said that everybody said that the baby —me— was the king's."
Fergus maintained his expression of friendly interest, but his thoughts were whirling. Why drive the daughter away? Because she would know too much? Because the child later presented as the infant born to the servant girl would not match in appearance and age? The story was simply bizarre. Fergus had never heard of Maric forcing himself on servants, and for all Alistair's remarks about "starstruck" girls, a serving maid had no choice in any real sense. It would be very interesting to question this Goldanna at length, but Fergus suspected that she must be dead, either in the battle, or later, when Eamon decided that she would be an embarrassment that would call attention to the king's irregular birth. Perhaps she would have known something about the mother that would have called Alistair's suitability into question?
Dragon's Era- No Man's Land Page 19