Warmage, Chapter 10
Title: Warmage, Chapter 10
Rating: T
Universe: Dragon Age AU
Disclaimer: Not mine
Summary: It has been a thousand years since the Tevinter Imperium put down the rebellion of Andraste. Magister Marian Hawke-- the Warmage, scourge of the Qunari-- has beaten her peer Danarius in a duel at court, winning quite a number of his possessions...and finding herself forced to help govern the southern city of Kirkwall. Her greatest ambition is to take command of the legions at Par Vollen and win the war. The trick is just getting there. Something one former piece of Danarius' property may be useful in accomplishing.
“You have worked with every kind of filth out there, Isabela. I know that includes Tal-Vashoth. Why is working with Qunari so hard?”
Isabela didn’t turn away from the sea. Fenris found her casual take on danger impressive-and stupid. Not many would flaunt the will of a magister, much less do it with their back to the mage the whole time. “My will has been sapped by the loss of my ship,” the pirate answered lazily, “Why have you put off the inspection of the Gallows so long? Isn’t it some sort of traditional, formal hullabaloo for the Prefex?”
Hawke’s eyes narrowed. She rearranged her crimson robes, which were quite traditional and formal. “Blood magic orgies aren’t to my taste. It is also exacerbates the issue with the Veil, which was part of its purpose long ago. If you work with the Qunari, you can pool resources, and then perhaps you will finish the job I gave you. Or at least find out what it is they’re looking for.”
“If it’s an orgy, I’d be in.”
Hawke huffed. Fenris, standing right next to her, felt her stretch in preparation for the use of force. Something about the movement stirred something in him, something very stupid, and stupidity was not good.
Varric chuckled from where he leaned against the nearby railing. “Listen, if the Rivani won’t help, I can. And I’ll bet I beat her to it.”
Isabela did turn then. “Ooh, how much would you like to bet?”
The regular card games at the manor had grown to include the pirate, and she had only lost once, when she’d been completely sober. She liked to claim she never lost a bet. “The location of Arlathan and its treasures,” Varric said.
“Really now?”
“Have I ever gone back on a bet?”
The pirate cocked her head. “And I’ll give back all you’ve lost to me.” Varric nodded. “Then you’re on.”
The pair shook hands and Hawke chuckled. “Don’t get her killed, Varric.”
“I won’t lose, Prefex, so don’t you worry about that. Besides, what’s a cadre of elite researchers to a pirate queen?”
Isabela looked back and forth between them. “You know where Arlathan is?” she asked Hawke.
“I know who’s there. Where it is a bit more of a secret.”
Varric watched Hawke adjust her robes again. “What? You’re nervous about inspecting the slave pens? Because you can’t be nervous about the trial. I’m your defending counsel. And I don’t lose bets.”
The reason Hawke had agreed to come to the Gallows that morning was because she was being put on trial for the death of several apprentices when the Qunari arrived. Fenris wondered why she was being tried. Minrathous magisters killed each other’s underlings all the time.
Politics, of course. It was always politics. It was politics that killed underlings. It was politics than won and lost wars.
It was not, however, politics that had killed these particular apprentices. It had been Hawke’s anger at the death of her slaves.
The stench of the Gallows hit them, all the stink of hundreds of bodies living in close quarters, with the smell of rotting flesh shot through like a sick afterthought.
Hawke, Fenris, and Isabela ignored it. Varric, however, dug a handkerchief out of his pocket and held it to his nose and mouth. “And there’s the first reason I avoid the magisterial court.”
Hawke stood and eyed him askance. “And here you said you are the best lawyer in Kirkwall.”
“I am, but most magisters kill each other before anything becomes a legal issue.”
Hawke shrugged and moved to the bow to watch the Gallows loom nearer.
Fenris had not seen the fortress so close in the day. At night, it had been eerily silent, the slaves overcome by sleeping spells, all ships halted. By day, it bustled with activity.
There were voices; shouts and chatter and high piercing screams. A million things were being moved about, gates opened and shut, bodies shifting en masse, all coming together in a faceless cacophony. On the shoreward docks, long lines of slaves, chained together by hands and feet, were being loaded onto barges, headed for the Lowtown markets. Their heads hung low, utterly defeated.
And standing silhouetted all this, Hawke, short hair blowing in the wind. She was such a contrast to the towering straight gray edges and voiceless noise; small and quite human, silent and purposeful.
Varric elbowed him in the ribs. Fenris scowled down at him. “Explain to me how exactly you are such a great lawyer, given your lack of tact.”
“Come on. I’m plenty tactful, just not around the crowd you hang out with, elf. As for the lawyer thing, I’m the best lawyer in Kirkwall. Minrathous or Nevarra? They’d tear me apart. It’s all about rules and laws in places like that.”
Fenris gave him a moment to see the flaw in that statement, but no such realization was forthcoming. “It’s a court of law.”
“Not as much as you think, especially not in Kirkwall. We’re so far south no one cares as long as nothing disruptive happens and everyone here wants a good story to tell. You see, that’s all being a lawyer is. It’s storytelling. You want people to see the story a certain way, so you embellish this, you downplay that, you throw a little lie in here and there. The high-minded northerners like to find the loopholes in their laws, like opening a puzzle box, but that’s just complicating things and damn boring besides.”
“You say lawyer, I say liar,” Isabela quipped, “Oh, look, that idiot at the helm is going to crash us into the docks.”
The boat hit the docks with a shuddering hollow crash, nearly sending Hawke flying off. She caught herself and glared back at the sailor who was steering. Red robes swirled as she flung her hand out, sending a small lighting bold flying at the man. He yelped and collapsed on the deck, twitching for a moment or two before shakily rolling to his knees.
She was still a magister, if one of a different kind.
“Isabela,” Hawke snapped.
The pirate grinned and touched her right hand to her heart, a soldier’s salute. “I will await your command, my Prefex.”
Hawke ignored her and vaulted onto the docks. Fenris followed, while Varric waited for the boat to be tied up. Hawke sorted out her robes impatiently as they waited.
She was being strangely anxious. “Mistress, if I might ask-”
“They were Tahrone’s students, and that bitch is Danarius’ contact in the south. She’s spying on Orsino for him.”
“So Danarius is involved.”
“If I look like I went berserk, I will not be headed north anytime soon. If I look like I went berserk on behalf of slaves, I will lose any hope of a post anywhere at all ever and may not be long for this world.”
"You did kill them for what they did to your slaves.”
“Out of sympathy or defense of my property, that is their question. If the former, it speaks to a very old fear of a magister leading a slave rebellion. Such a person is usually removed by any means necessary.”
That explained why the abomination was hiding in Darktown. Also why he thought he had any chance of succeeding. Fenris debated telling her about that for the thousandth time, and rejected it once again. Their cause was just in many respects, but they would fail. Slave revolt always failed. Even his personal rebellion had ended in chains again.
Varric strolled down the boat ramp. “Dignity,” he said, “is the key to being a great lawyer.”
“You’re wearing a shirt that exposes your chest hair for all the world to see,” Hawke told him.
“Dwarven dignity is different.”
Hawke sighed and headed towards the gates. The slave drivers moved their lines of captives well out of her way. If a magister arrived at the Gallows in formal robes, they were not in a good mood.
The woman who waited at the gates saluted and bowed respectively. “Prefex,” she said, “I am Tribune Stannard, commander of the Kirkwall garrison and the Gallows prison.” Despite the shadows, Fenris could see her heavy plate was parade gear. The Tevinter eagle framed her collar, and the chest plate was dominated by two bronze weeping slaves, icons of Andoral and Kirkwall, all polished to a mirror finish. Two images of the Dragon of Slaves decorated her shoulders, and gleaming lines of weeping slaves were displayed on her gauntlets.
Fenris did not want to see more of the Gallows.
Hawke nodded. “I apologize for both my delay and my hurry, Tribune. The traditional-”
The gate behind the tribune was not so much opened as nearly torn off its hinges. “Tribune!”
The Tribune’s hard, cold blue eyes narrowed. She didn’t even turn her body, just her head. “Magister Orsino.”
The elven magister stepped forward as if he hadn’t done anything unusual. “I need those slaves. Now. They’re vital to my research!”
“I don’t care if they were bred and born as fuel for your experiments. They must be numbered and evaluated like all others who come through my gates.”
“The dealer has already sold them to me.” Orsino’s face took on a strange look, something not quite right. “There is no need for your evaluation.”
The tribune performed an about face, moving very quickly for someone wearing heavy plate. “We have kept the records here for over a thousand years. I will not leave any gaps here for you, Magister, or anyone.”
Both the magister and the tribune looked at Hawke. “Tribune, carry on with protocol.” She eyed Orsino coolly. “Orsino will pay the dealer, but have the slaves transferred to my possession.”
Orsino gaped. “I paid for them!”
“And you interrupted protocol that exists for a reason. Several. Including the fact that some slaves have better uses than being bled.” While the magister continued gaping, Hawke turned back to the tribune. “Send them to my household. I will be investigating the matter.”
The other woman nodded, an ever-so-slight smile on her face. “There are fifty of them, Prefex.”
“What a nice round number. You may leave, Magister.”
“I...” He wasn’t going to win this one, and he knew it. The balance of power was weighted heavily against him. It was incredibly pleasant to see a blood mage denied his victims. “The dealer already has his money. Thank you for looking into this dispute, Prefex. Will you begin your inspection of the Gallows?” Something terrible flashed in his eyes again.
“Not the traditional way, I’m afraid. I have to go stand trial.” Orsino blinked. Tribune Stannard looked amused. “A bit of Minrathous politics, I’m afraid.”
“A pity,” Orsino said, “The previous Prefex enjoyed the Gallows quite a bit. It was quite an experience.”
“I’m sure, but I must be getting to court. If you’d lead the way, Tribune.” The other woman turned and headed inside. Hawke paused next to Orsino. “Please remember my uncle’s laws, Magister.”
Fenris spared Orsino a glance as he passed. The man’s knuckles were white as they clutched his staff.
---
From Gallows Humor: One Dwarf’s Life in the City of Kirkwall, by the renowned Orator Varric Tethras:
V. Tethras: “My dear members of the jury, you’ve heard the facts, bare and dry as old bones. They happened, no one denies it. But does that tell you what really went on?
I can tell you what went on, based on the evidence and the well-known character of the defendant.
Things went south that night. You all know that. A pack of Tal-Vashoth mercenaries showed up at the wrong time, in the wrong place, just like oxmen always do. And the guests at the party reacted the only way any decent citizen of Tevinter Imperium could: they attacked the intruders.
The apprentices in question were good kids, I don’t doubt it. Followed their training to the letter, star pupils, more valuable to Magister Tahrone than any slave, as she’s made clear. But they weren’t trained for battle. They had fled when the Qunari had shown up-as our witnesses have stated. Cowards…anyway, they feared the oxmen would come for them. They used the only fuel they could imagine that would give them the strength to beat the monsters. Blood.
Prefex Hawke’s slaves were right there. What could it hurt? They were all going to be killed by the Qunari anyway.
So that’s how Prefex Hawke found them bleeding her slaves dry. Trained slaves, not just fuel. Her father’s household. Desecrated and used by outsiders-by cowards.
Prefex Hawke is known as the Warmage. Her fury is violent because the northern front is violent, as you all saw first hand with the oxmen that night. You would lose your temper, too, if you found your household being violated that way. The fury that with you would beat with, she impales with. How else can anyone survive the northern war? You’ve seen the shattered ships, you’ve heard how legions have perished in thunder and smoke. You know how the Qunari slaughter without mercy.
So the Prefex killed them, but too late. They had finished draining her slaves in the fight, and the last flicker of life was too far gone to salvage.
Prefex Hawke acted out of a natural defense of one’s property and heritage. If you decide she did it out of misguided sympathy for slaves, out of some desire to overthrow the Imperium, you are wrong. She did not fight the Qunari so brutally for an Imperium she did not love, as I know you all love it...”
…And that, ladies and gentlemen, is how you get a self-important jury of southern magisters to unanimously vote not guilty…
---
The silence of the nighttime Gallows was worse than the daytime noise, after all.
“I’m sorry the trial took so long,” Hawke was telling Tribune Stannard as they wandered through the fortress. Fenris followed like a ghost.
“It is no matter. Truthfully, we were not prepared for formalities.” The woman gave Hawke a careful, shrewd look. “And they would not have been to your taste, in any event.”
“True. Blood magic is a crutch that tends to grow out of hand. The easy path to power never ends well.”
The tribune stopped at a slave pen and peered inside. There was only dim torchlight to see by. The bodies within were piled up on each other, breathing deeply, together, a pulsating mass caught up in a sleeping spell; elf and human, male and female, placed together because of some common trait, stripped nearly naked, tagged and numbered with an iron collar. The great bronze slave statues on the pillars all around seemed to weep for them.
“Would you sympathize with a slave rebellion?” the tribune asked.
Hawke sighed. “What kind of answer do you expect to that? No, by the way.”
“You do not behave like any other magister.”
“So they tell me.” She spared an amused glance back at Fenris. Perhaps he was not such a ghost, after all.
“There are rumors. Of course, they are partly spread by the Magisters Orsino and Tahrone. Her purposes would have been legal, I suppose.”
“Political, as well. Orsino is just irritated I haven’t danced to his tune.” Hawke moved away from the pen. The tribune followed dutifully. Their footsteps echoed horribly in the enforced silence. “Why does this concern you?”
“My duty is to defend this city. To keep order. The magisters may bicker and kill each other as they please. But they may not lead a slave rebellion.” The tribune’s voice grew hard. “I know how to kill a mage.”
“You’re hunting Orsino’s boy, then.”
“When I have a lead.”
Fenris remembered the twisting ancient warrens beneath the sewers. He would bet she rarely had a lead.
He could betray the rebellion, he knew that. He could run again and join them, too. But he didn’t have the…courage to move from the fence he sat on. To go either way brought pain to many who deserved it, yes, but also to people he cared about.
Cared about. Like the Fog Warriors long ago.
It would not end like that, he decided, not for Hawke or Kalias or Varric or anyone else in the household he’d come to call…home?
“The hour is late, and I’ve been having a bad run of nightmares. I have paperwork and meetings tomorrow morning,” Hawke said, “I must take my leave in hopes of staying awake through them. I officially approve of your security measures. And your vigilance.”
"You haven’t toured the prison yet.” The tribune seemed shocked, in a bureaucratic way.
“I know it won’t be to my tastes, in a rather traditional sense. Perhaps consider that.” Hawke turned toward the gate. “Fenris.”
He moved to her side, happy to be leaving the heavy living silence. She slowed and slumped once they turned a corner.
“Are you tired?” Fenris asked. It was a stupid question; it had been a long day full of yammering magisters. Anyone would be tired.
She rubbed her eyes, then resumed her usual proud stride. “Not as badly as I have been. Just…not looking forward to going to sleep. Or dealing with Minrathous politics by letter.”
“Danarius is going to use this all somehow?”
“It was probably his plan, or at least Tahrone’s plan to get into his good graces. I should have killed the bastard.” She shook her head. “What I would do…well, I would have killed my rival. Except I didn’t. If I were another kind of mage, I would start sowing rumors of sympathy towards slave rebellion. It would make me look unfavorable to the Archon and his court. There’s nothing official that can be done now, thanks to Varric.” She rolled her eyes and grinned for a moment.
“Danarius hates you.”
“I almost killed him. It tends to have that effect.” The emerged from the Gallows onto the shoreward docks. The scent of the ocean hit Fenris hard, and he realized how prevalent the smell of rot and sewage had been inside. “Hadriana has vanished again.”
Fenris sneered. “It’s no surprise. She is a sniveling coward, though a clever one. She has some plan, but she will have to work herself up to going through with it.”
“You know, I miss slaying the dragon,” Hawke said, “It was relatively simple, and it was definitely honest.”
Fenris couldn’t help a slight smile. “Hadriana and Danarius will be the same, except easier to kill.”
She grinned at him, eyes seeming to glow in the moonlight. “I’m glad you’re here, Fenris. Come. Let’s go home. I bet Isabela’s drunk, but she can still steer us across, I’m sure.”
Rating: T
Universe: Dragon Age AU
Disclaimer: Not mine
Summary: It has been a thousand years since the Tevinter Imperium put down the rebellion of Andraste. Magister Marian Hawke-- the Warmage, scourge of the Qunari-- has beaten her peer Danarius in a duel at court, winning quite a number of his possessions...and finding herself forced to help govern the southern city of Kirkwall. Her greatest ambition is to take command of the legions at Par Vollen and win the war. The trick is just getting there. Something one former piece of Danarius' property may be useful in accomplishing.
“You have worked with every kind of filth out there, Isabela. I know that includes Tal-Vashoth. Why is working with Qunari so hard?”
Isabela didn’t turn away from the sea. Fenris found her casual take on danger impressive-and stupid. Not many would flaunt the will of a magister, much less do it with their back to the mage the whole time. “My will has been sapped by the loss of my ship,” the pirate answered lazily, “Why have you put off the inspection of the Gallows so long? Isn’t it some sort of traditional, formal hullabaloo for the Prefex?”
Hawke’s eyes narrowed. She rearranged her crimson robes, which were quite traditional and formal. “Blood magic orgies aren’t to my taste. It is also exacerbates the issue with the Veil, which was part of its purpose long ago. If you work with the Qunari, you can pool resources, and then perhaps you will finish the job I gave you. Or at least find out what it is they’re looking for.”
“If it’s an orgy, I’d be in.”
Hawke huffed. Fenris, standing right next to her, felt her stretch in preparation for the use of force. Something about the movement stirred something in him, something very stupid, and stupidity was not good.
Varric chuckled from where he leaned against the nearby railing. “Listen, if the Rivani won’t help, I can. And I’ll bet I beat her to it.”
Isabela did turn then. “Ooh, how much would you like to bet?”
The regular card games at the manor had grown to include the pirate, and she had only lost once, when she’d been completely sober. She liked to claim she never lost a bet. “The location of Arlathan and its treasures,” Varric said.
“Really now?”
“Have I ever gone back on a bet?”
The pirate cocked her head. “And I’ll give back all you’ve lost to me.” Varric nodded. “Then you’re on.”
The pair shook hands and Hawke chuckled. “Don’t get her killed, Varric.”
“I won’t lose, Prefex, so don’t you worry about that. Besides, what’s a cadre of elite researchers to a pirate queen?”
Isabela looked back and forth between them. “You know where Arlathan is?” she asked Hawke.
“I know who’s there. Where it is a bit more of a secret.”
Varric watched Hawke adjust her robes again. “What? You’re nervous about inspecting the slave pens? Because you can’t be nervous about the trial. I’m your defending counsel. And I don’t lose bets.”
The reason Hawke had agreed to come to the Gallows that morning was because she was being put on trial for the death of several apprentices when the Qunari arrived. Fenris wondered why she was being tried. Minrathous magisters killed each other’s underlings all the time.
Politics, of course. It was always politics. It was politics that killed underlings. It was politics than won and lost wars.
It was not, however, politics that had killed these particular apprentices. It had been Hawke’s anger at the death of her slaves.
The stench of the Gallows hit them, all the stink of hundreds of bodies living in close quarters, with the smell of rotting flesh shot through like a sick afterthought.
Hawke, Fenris, and Isabela ignored it. Varric, however, dug a handkerchief out of his pocket and held it to his nose and mouth. “And there’s the first reason I avoid the magisterial court.”
Hawke stood and eyed him askance. “And here you said you are the best lawyer in Kirkwall.”
“I am, but most magisters kill each other before anything becomes a legal issue.”
Hawke shrugged and moved to the bow to watch the Gallows loom nearer.
Fenris had not seen the fortress so close in the day. At night, it had been eerily silent, the slaves overcome by sleeping spells, all ships halted. By day, it bustled with activity.
There were voices; shouts and chatter and high piercing screams. A million things were being moved about, gates opened and shut, bodies shifting en masse, all coming together in a faceless cacophony. On the shoreward docks, long lines of slaves, chained together by hands and feet, were being loaded onto barges, headed for the Lowtown markets. Their heads hung low, utterly defeated.
And standing silhouetted all this, Hawke, short hair blowing in the wind. She was such a contrast to the towering straight gray edges and voiceless noise; small and quite human, silent and purposeful.
Varric elbowed him in the ribs. Fenris scowled down at him. “Explain to me how exactly you are such a great lawyer, given your lack of tact.”
“Come on. I’m plenty tactful, just not around the crowd you hang out with, elf. As for the lawyer thing, I’m the best lawyer in Kirkwall. Minrathous or Nevarra? They’d tear me apart. It’s all about rules and laws in places like that.”
Fenris gave him a moment to see the flaw in that statement, but no such realization was forthcoming. “It’s a court of law.”
“Not as much as you think, especially not in Kirkwall. We’re so far south no one cares as long as nothing disruptive happens and everyone here wants a good story to tell. You see, that’s all being a lawyer is. It’s storytelling. You want people to see the story a certain way, so you embellish this, you downplay that, you throw a little lie in here and there. The high-minded northerners like to find the loopholes in their laws, like opening a puzzle box, but that’s just complicating things and damn boring besides.”
“You say lawyer, I say liar,” Isabela quipped, “Oh, look, that idiot at the helm is going to crash us into the docks.”
The boat hit the docks with a shuddering hollow crash, nearly sending Hawke flying off. She caught herself and glared back at the sailor who was steering. Red robes swirled as she flung her hand out, sending a small lighting bold flying at the man. He yelped and collapsed on the deck, twitching for a moment or two before shakily rolling to his knees.
She was still a magister, if one of a different kind.
“Isabela,” Hawke snapped.
The pirate grinned and touched her right hand to her heart, a soldier’s salute. “I will await your command, my Prefex.”
Hawke ignored her and vaulted onto the docks. Fenris followed, while Varric waited for the boat to be tied up. Hawke sorted out her robes impatiently as they waited.
She was being strangely anxious. “Mistress, if I might ask-”
“They were Tahrone’s students, and that bitch is Danarius’ contact in the south. She’s spying on Orsino for him.”
“So Danarius is involved.”
“If I look like I went berserk, I will not be headed north anytime soon. If I look like I went berserk on behalf of slaves, I will lose any hope of a post anywhere at all ever and may not be long for this world.”
"You did kill them for what they did to your slaves.”
“Out of sympathy or defense of my property, that is their question. If the former, it speaks to a very old fear of a magister leading a slave rebellion. Such a person is usually removed by any means necessary.”
That explained why the abomination was hiding in Darktown. Also why he thought he had any chance of succeeding. Fenris debated telling her about that for the thousandth time, and rejected it once again. Their cause was just in many respects, but they would fail. Slave revolt always failed. Even his personal rebellion had ended in chains again.
Varric strolled down the boat ramp. “Dignity,” he said, “is the key to being a great lawyer.”
“You’re wearing a shirt that exposes your chest hair for all the world to see,” Hawke told him.
“Dwarven dignity is different.”
Hawke sighed and headed towards the gates. The slave drivers moved their lines of captives well out of her way. If a magister arrived at the Gallows in formal robes, they were not in a good mood.
The woman who waited at the gates saluted and bowed respectively. “Prefex,” she said, “I am Tribune Stannard, commander of the Kirkwall garrison and the Gallows prison.” Despite the shadows, Fenris could see her heavy plate was parade gear. The Tevinter eagle framed her collar, and the chest plate was dominated by two bronze weeping slaves, icons of Andoral and Kirkwall, all polished to a mirror finish. Two images of the Dragon of Slaves decorated her shoulders, and gleaming lines of weeping slaves were displayed on her gauntlets.
Fenris did not want to see more of the Gallows.
Hawke nodded. “I apologize for both my delay and my hurry, Tribune. The traditional-”
The gate behind the tribune was not so much opened as nearly torn off its hinges. “Tribune!”
The Tribune’s hard, cold blue eyes narrowed. She didn’t even turn her body, just her head. “Magister Orsino.”
The elven magister stepped forward as if he hadn’t done anything unusual. “I need those slaves. Now. They’re vital to my research!”
“I don’t care if they were bred and born as fuel for your experiments. They must be numbered and evaluated like all others who come through my gates.”
“The dealer has already sold them to me.” Orsino’s face took on a strange look, something not quite right. “There is no need for your evaluation.”
The tribune performed an about face, moving very quickly for someone wearing heavy plate. “We have kept the records here for over a thousand years. I will not leave any gaps here for you, Magister, or anyone.”
Both the magister and the tribune looked at Hawke. “Tribune, carry on with protocol.” She eyed Orsino coolly. “Orsino will pay the dealer, but have the slaves transferred to my possession.”
Orsino gaped. “I paid for them!”
“And you interrupted protocol that exists for a reason. Several. Including the fact that some slaves have better uses than being bled.” While the magister continued gaping, Hawke turned back to the tribune. “Send them to my household. I will be investigating the matter.”
The other woman nodded, an ever-so-slight smile on her face. “There are fifty of them, Prefex.”
“What a nice round number. You may leave, Magister.”
“I...” He wasn’t going to win this one, and he knew it. The balance of power was weighted heavily against him. It was incredibly pleasant to see a blood mage denied his victims. “The dealer already has his money. Thank you for looking into this dispute, Prefex. Will you begin your inspection of the Gallows?” Something terrible flashed in his eyes again.
“Not the traditional way, I’m afraid. I have to go stand trial.” Orsino blinked. Tribune Stannard looked amused. “A bit of Minrathous politics, I’m afraid.”
“A pity,” Orsino said, “The previous Prefex enjoyed the Gallows quite a bit. It was quite an experience.”
“I’m sure, but I must be getting to court. If you’d lead the way, Tribune.” The other woman turned and headed inside. Hawke paused next to Orsino. “Please remember my uncle’s laws, Magister.”
Fenris spared Orsino a glance as he passed. The man’s knuckles were white as they clutched his staff.
---
From Gallows Humor: One Dwarf’s Life in the City of Kirkwall, by the renowned Orator Varric Tethras:
V. Tethras: “My dear members of the jury, you’ve heard the facts, bare and dry as old bones. They happened, no one denies it. But does that tell you what really went on?
I can tell you what went on, based on the evidence and the well-known character of the defendant.
Things went south that night. You all know that. A pack of Tal-Vashoth mercenaries showed up at the wrong time, in the wrong place, just like oxmen always do. And the guests at the party reacted the only way any decent citizen of Tevinter Imperium could: they attacked the intruders.
The apprentices in question were good kids, I don’t doubt it. Followed their training to the letter, star pupils, more valuable to Magister Tahrone than any slave, as she’s made clear. But they weren’t trained for battle. They had fled when the Qunari had shown up-as our witnesses have stated. Cowards…anyway, they feared the oxmen would come for them. They used the only fuel they could imagine that would give them the strength to beat the monsters. Blood.
Prefex Hawke’s slaves were right there. What could it hurt? They were all going to be killed by the Qunari anyway.
So that’s how Prefex Hawke found them bleeding her slaves dry. Trained slaves, not just fuel. Her father’s household. Desecrated and used by outsiders-by cowards.
Prefex Hawke is known as the Warmage. Her fury is violent because the northern front is violent, as you all saw first hand with the oxmen that night. You would lose your temper, too, if you found your household being violated that way. The fury that with you would beat with, she impales with. How else can anyone survive the northern war? You’ve seen the shattered ships, you’ve heard how legions have perished in thunder and smoke. You know how the Qunari slaughter without mercy.
So the Prefex killed them, but too late. They had finished draining her slaves in the fight, and the last flicker of life was too far gone to salvage.
Prefex Hawke acted out of a natural defense of one’s property and heritage. If you decide she did it out of misguided sympathy for slaves, out of some desire to overthrow the Imperium, you are wrong. She did not fight the Qunari so brutally for an Imperium she did not love, as I know you all love it...”
…And that, ladies and gentlemen, is how you get a self-important jury of southern magisters to unanimously vote not guilty…
---
The silence of the nighttime Gallows was worse than the daytime noise, after all.
“I’m sorry the trial took so long,” Hawke was telling Tribune Stannard as they wandered through the fortress. Fenris followed like a ghost.
“It is no matter. Truthfully, we were not prepared for formalities.” The woman gave Hawke a careful, shrewd look. “And they would not have been to your taste, in any event.”
“True. Blood magic is a crutch that tends to grow out of hand. The easy path to power never ends well.”
The tribune stopped at a slave pen and peered inside. There was only dim torchlight to see by. The bodies within were piled up on each other, breathing deeply, together, a pulsating mass caught up in a sleeping spell; elf and human, male and female, placed together because of some common trait, stripped nearly naked, tagged and numbered with an iron collar. The great bronze slave statues on the pillars all around seemed to weep for them.
“Would you sympathize with a slave rebellion?” the tribune asked.
Hawke sighed. “What kind of answer do you expect to that? No, by the way.”
“You do not behave like any other magister.”
“So they tell me.” She spared an amused glance back at Fenris. Perhaps he was not such a ghost, after all.
“There are rumors. Of course, they are partly spread by the Magisters Orsino and Tahrone. Her purposes would have been legal, I suppose.”
“Political, as well. Orsino is just irritated I haven’t danced to his tune.” Hawke moved away from the pen. The tribune followed dutifully. Their footsteps echoed horribly in the enforced silence. “Why does this concern you?”
“My duty is to defend this city. To keep order. The magisters may bicker and kill each other as they please. But they may not lead a slave rebellion.” The tribune’s voice grew hard. “I know how to kill a mage.”
“You’re hunting Orsino’s boy, then.”
“When I have a lead.”
Fenris remembered the twisting ancient warrens beneath the sewers. He would bet she rarely had a lead.
He could betray the rebellion, he knew that. He could run again and join them, too. But he didn’t have the…courage to move from the fence he sat on. To go either way brought pain to many who deserved it, yes, but also to people he cared about.
Cared about. Like the Fog Warriors long ago.
It would not end like that, he decided, not for Hawke or Kalias or Varric or anyone else in the household he’d come to call…home?
“The hour is late, and I’ve been having a bad run of nightmares. I have paperwork and meetings tomorrow morning,” Hawke said, “I must take my leave in hopes of staying awake through them. I officially approve of your security measures. And your vigilance.”
"You haven’t toured the prison yet.” The tribune seemed shocked, in a bureaucratic way.
“I know it won’t be to my tastes, in a rather traditional sense. Perhaps consider that.” Hawke turned toward the gate. “Fenris.”
He moved to her side, happy to be leaving the heavy living silence. She slowed and slumped once they turned a corner.
“Are you tired?” Fenris asked. It was a stupid question; it had been a long day full of yammering magisters. Anyone would be tired.
She rubbed her eyes, then resumed her usual proud stride. “Not as badly as I have been. Just…not looking forward to going to sleep. Or dealing with Minrathous politics by letter.”
“Danarius is going to use this all somehow?”
“It was probably his plan, or at least Tahrone’s plan to get into his good graces. I should have killed the bastard.” She shook her head. “What I would do…well, I would have killed my rival. Except I didn’t. If I were another kind of mage, I would start sowing rumors of sympathy towards slave rebellion. It would make me look unfavorable to the Archon and his court. There’s nothing official that can be done now, thanks to Varric.” She rolled her eyes and grinned for a moment.
“Danarius hates you.”
“I almost killed him. It tends to have that effect.” The emerged from the Gallows onto the shoreward docks. The scent of the ocean hit Fenris hard, and he realized how prevalent the smell of rot and sewage had been inside. “Hadriana has vanished again.”
Fenris sneered. “It’s no surprise. She is a sniveling coward, though a clever one. She has some plan, but she will have to work herself up to going through with it.”
“You know, I miss slaying the dragon,” Hawke said, “It was relatively simple, and it was definitely honest.”
Fenris couldn’t help a slight smile. “Hadriana and Danarius will be the same, except easier to kill.”
She grinned at him, eyes seeming to glow in the moonlight. “I’m glad you’re here, Fenris. Come. Let’s go home. I bet Isabela’s drunk, but she can still steer us across, I’m sure.”