Terminus: Brosca
Title: Terminus: Brosca
Rating: Teen
Characters: Brosca
Summary: Brosca never intended to kill a Carta crime lord. But when he has, he's got his own way of avoiding the consequences.
Previously: Terminus: Aeducan,
Leske and Brosca. When they’d first started out, no one had known them. No one had cared. You could get a dozen brawlers for a copper bit in Dust Town. Even if they weren’t very good brawlers, you could always get more, more and more until you got the job done. Experienced dusters knew not to take a job the first time it was offered; let the foolish young kill themselves over it, then go in later and earn all the coin for half the work. But when Leske and Brosca were recruited to smash a well-guarded shop on the edge of Dust Town, those waiting for the second offer were left disappointed.
They were good. They got better.
Dusters weren’t all that fussed about the traditional rules of Orzammar, but they had their own rules to worry about. Well, more like guidelines, really. There wasn’t any authority to maintain all the rules, but breaking the wrong rules, the most important rules would usually get you dead. And one of the absolute most important rules was simple. Don’t bother trusting those you work with. It was just one of many rules that Leske and Brosca decided to ignore. Their most spectacular display of disregard for tradition was when they pitched one of Beraht’s most prized brawlers down a well for feeling up Rica Brosca, but the whole trusting each other thing came a close second.
You weren’t meant to beat on one of the Carta’s people, not without being told to by someone else in the Carta, at any rate, but Leske and Brosca were really, really good at doing what they weren’t supposed to. To make things worse, they then crippled the men Beraht sent after them. Leske called it making things better, but Brosca already knew that listening to Leske was stupid. After that, Beraht sent two more groups. And after that, he came himself.
The Carta weren’t the only way to survive in the Dust Town. But they were the only way to live well in Dust Town. When Beraht offered them a job, he wasn’t offering and they all knew it. Working for the Carta got them money, food, better weapons and armour. Got them fear, or respect, as it was known in Dust Town. Gave them something to aim for; all the Carta lieutenants and leaders had started out as brawlers or fingersmiths. It meant letting Beraht know about Rica, but there were worse things for a woman to be in Dust Town than a Noble-hunter.
"Besides," Rica said one night. "The clothes make Leske look like he’s going to trip over his own tongue."
Brosca spit out his ale and started coughing.
And there were worse things for men to do than fight. Brosca drew the line occasionally. There was no way to refuse an order from the Carta, but some jobs were farmed out to younger brawlers, ones who didn’t yet know how to do the kind of damage that Brosca and Leske couldn’t get away with not doing. He was a Duster, not a monster. Leske sometimes did jobs on his own, but he never told and Brosca didn’t ask. Leske could take care of himself. And, yeah, sometimes it was annoying when someone came after Leske and Brosca got caught up in it, but it wasn’t ever something they couldn’t handle. Wasn’t ever too much to ask for having a man like Leske watching your back and your sister’s.
The jobs got harder, paid more. Brosca got used to coming home bloody, most of it not his. It was worse that Rica got used to it, too. Wasn’t any way to keep someone innocent in Dust Town. The Casteless were born condemned. But she was still his sister. He still wished, sometimes, that things were different. Of course, if wishes were nugs, no dwarf would starve. The Broscas hadn’t starved since Beraht had taken control of their lives, no wishes needed.
Rica caught the attention of a noble. Beraht threw a fit when she wouldn’t tell him who. Brosca knew that if Rica squeezed out a boy, she’d be off to the Diamond quarter, taking her mother and brother along with her. Beraht was planning to muscle in, Brosca knew, wanted to pass himself off as some uncle or cousin. Wasn’t anything Brosca could do about it, not if he wanted to live to see his nephew grown.
And then Brosca and Leske got sent to the Provings. Nothing they hadn’t done before, just some basic intimidation and fight-fixing. Until Beraht’s fighter turned out to be too drunk to stand, never mind win half a dozen fights. So Leske, Stone take him, wrestled his best friend into some borrowed armour and shoved Brosca out onto the Proving Grounds.
"Just put on the damn armour!"
"Leske, get off me, don’t you-"
"Stop wriggling!"
Brosca was one of Beraht’s best brawlers; he’d never found a fight he couldn’t win one way or another, even if one of those ways was sheer dumb luck. But that didn’t count for much. Beating six nobles at their own game, getting named Champion, all in front of the Lady Aeducan herself? That was worth a lot.
Wasn’t quite worth getting unmasked and disgraced and, oh yes, thrown in one of Beraht’s cells with only Leske to keep him company.
Sitting in a cell gave a Duster plenty of time to think. Brosca hadn’t really wanted to be Carta, hadn’t ever planned on being Carta. And it sure as Stone didn’t seem like being Carta was going to give him any advantages in life. Or, indeed, a life at all. And there was Rica to think about. Beraht wouldn’t keep a girl who’s brother had cost him over a hundred sovereigns. Might pass her around his boys before cutting her loose, but he wouldn’t keep her. Be more likely that he’d pass the word around, trash her reputation as a Noble hunter and her sponsor would drop her then even if she was pregnant.
And that was not alright.
If Beraht just wanted them dead, they wouldn’t have woken up at all. The fact that they were alive, had food and water, meant that Beraht wanted them to die, when he chose, how he chose and he wanted to be there when they did. And they were meant to just wait for it.
Brosca had never been very good at doing what he was meant to.
The next time a guard came to feed them, Brosca twisted an arm around the guy’s neck and yanked him backwards into the bars hard enough to break it. Which felt good, he had to admit. Idiot had the keys to the cells on his belt and it was easier than easy to pickpocket a dead man. Their gear was long gone; quality stuff like that, well, he couldn’t blame the younger brawlers for pinching it. Stone knew he’d never paid for a weapon in his life. But the dead guard had blades. Brosca and Leske could do a lot of damage with a blade each.
If you’d ever managed to get Brosca to sit down and think about his future, cutting a bloody path through Beraht’s hideout wouldn’t have crossed his mind. The people in front of him weren’t friends, but he knew them, had worked or traded with most of them. Not that he was unwilling to send the little bastards to the Ancestors, far from it, but it was different. Unsettling.
And then it was Beraht standing in front of him, angry and armed and not half as scary as Brosca remembered, lackeys on either side smirking. Saying something about Rica, the words unimportant because there was enough in the tone to make Brosca ready to tear people apart to protect his sister. But this was Beraht. The strongest crime lord in the Carta, the one feared by everyone, even the nobles.
It was stupid, it was so, so stupid. It was unforgivable and unforgettable and Brosca would be dead a dozen times over before he could make it out of Dust Town. It was the dumbest thing he could ever do. It was the only thing he could do.
He gave himself to the blood madness and when Brosca was himself again, Beraht was dead, in pieces, and Leske was looking rather sick.
"Are you lyrium-addled?" Leske shouted. "That was Beraht, the strongest leader in the whole damn Carta-"
"Yes, it was," Brosca replied. "And now he’s just another dead dwarf."
"And we’ll be dead when the rest of the Carta find out what we’ve done."
"We didn’t leave anyone alive."
"That’s the problem!"
"No, it’s the solution. Nobody can say we did this. The other leaders will think it was a lieutenant trying to seize power. No one could ever imagine a couple of brawlers doing this."
"So, what, we just hide and hope they blame someone else?"
Brosca nodded. "Pretty much."
"Yeah. Ok, I can live with that."
The battle for Beraht’s territory lasted for almost half a year. Leske had the time of his life, siding with whoever he liked for as long as he liked and not a moment longer. Brosca did his best to stay out of the whole thing, except for the odd moment when Leske needed someone at his back. Once the dust settled and there was finally someone in charge again, they’d probably be recruited again, willing or no, but Brosca wasn’t so sure that he wanted to spend any more time working for people who would one day kill him. If Rica’s babe was a boy, they’d head to the Diamond Quarter. And if the babe wasn’t a boy, well, Brosca had already convinced Rica to consider trying their luck on the surface. It wasn’t until the babe was born and, yes, definitely a boy, that Rice finally told her brother just who her patron was.
Bhelen, Prince of Orzammar, the dwarf who’d gone from third in line to the throne to first. The only noble Brosca had ever heard of who thought the Casteless were worth more than the filth they lived it. And when he came to Brosca and explained how Harrowmont’s quest for the throne meant Bhelen needed a dwarf with Brosca’s skills, all Brosca could think about was that day, years ago, when Beraht came with that offer was that wasn’t an offer. Bhelen’s offer wasn’t an offer, either, and they all knew it.
A better life for his sister and himself than he’d ever thought possible. A nephew who might one day rule Orzammar. And all it would cost him was whatever Bhelen decided to ask for. He wouldn’t be able to pass off those jobs he didn’t want to complete anymore. He wouldn’t be able to let people go when killing them did him no good. He wouldn’t be able to keep Leske at his back; Bhelen had been very clear on that point, so clear that Brosca started to wonder how long and close the Prince had been watching him. Long enough to learn how close Brosca was to Leske. Close enough to realise even that didn’t match the love he had for his sister.
So he let Leske go. He stayed with Bhelen, Leske went off to side with whoever it was that impressed Leske enough to make him stay. They had never spoken about it, not directly, but they both knew, had always known, that if they separated, they would end up on opposing sides. It would just be a matter of time. When those two opposing sides collided, Brosca and Leske would last longer than the rest. Long enough that they’d be the only two dwarves left standing. And then they would finally see if those old brawlers were right. If trusting those you’ve worked with was a waste of time and lives.
Working for Bhelen wasn’t that different from working for Beraht. Same dirty jobs, same bruises and bloodstains. Fight after fight, death after death, nothing to look forward to but the occasional visit with his sister and nephew. It was almost pathetic, how much those stolen moments could cheer him up, how he found himself thinking that a whole afternoon with them was generous indeed.
And, eight months after he killed Beraht, when he was sent back to that same Carta hideout to take care of the luckless idiot who’d stepped into Beraht’s shoes, he wasn’t really all that surprised to find Leske there. Brosca had never liked Jarvia all that much, dangerous bitch that she was, but Leske had... well, not liked, that was too strong a word, but there had been something there. And Jarvia had done well for herself, got most of Beraht’s territory, taken over the lyrium trade, most of the weapons deals.
It made sense. Leske liked people with money, like strong people with money all the more. Finding him at Jarvia’s side, that made even more sense. Even Jarvia wasn’t dumb enough to be able to ignore just how useful Leske could be.
She was, however, dumb enough to be able to forget just how dangerous Leske was. Dumb enough not to figure out exactly how Beraht had died. Dumb enough to never see the blade that Leske buried in her throat coming.
So when Brosca made in to the centre of the hideout again, another trail of broken and bloody dwarfs behind him, only one of the boys he’d brought with him still standing, he was kinda, maybe, just a little bit surprised to find Leske standing over the bloody body of the woman that he’d been sent to kill.
But Brosca was good at dealing with unforeseen consequences. The poor sod who’d made it this far got his head lopped off by his own commander and that left Brosca and Leske in the middle of Carta hideout, surrounded by dead bodies, with only themselves to blame.
"That ruse of yours won’t work a second time," Leske said.
"I know."
"You don’t really believe that Bhelen gives a shit about a little tunnel rat like Jarvia, do you?"
"You taught me better than that." Brosca switched his grip on his sword, going from easy-relaxed to ready-to-kill. He knew that Leske noticed.
"Me for Rica, huh?"
"No. You for me."
"You willing to make that trade?"
"Don’t rightly know."
Leske smiled. "Well, we don’t we find out, then?"