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Mission: get into Minrathous of all places. Make contact with someone there who could help hunt for Solas. Find some way to see his parents and make sure they were alright. Oh, and avoid all his old army buddies so he didn’t get caught and publicly executed for fraud and desertion.
Sure.
Simple.
Fasta vas, he was an idiot. But here he was, ‘Krem,’ with a letter of recommendation from not the Bull’s Chargers, and enough gold for a healthy-but-not-suspicious bribe to the dockmaster to just look the other fucking way. The dockmaster spit, but ‘suggested’ what was probably the worst inn near the docks. There was stiff competition; it might be only the second-worst, because getting guests knifed without a cut of the profits wasn’t worth the dockmaster’s time.
Tevene accents everywhere. Not everywhere, because literally everyone came to Minrathous at some point or another, but everywhere. Almost enough to make him homesick, except his home had been long-ago sold off and rented out to a stream of other Soporati families just struggling to stay on their own two feet.
He had no idea where to start, other than not anywhere in the upper reaches of the city where Dorian kept court with his Lucerni. Find new allies. The unexpected.
That meant lower Tevinter or in the dwarven Ambassadoria. Solas had a weird blind spot about dwarves, but he’d leave that to Harding and Rocky. No, his focus was going to be right in the Soporati neighborhoods or the slave factories. That’s where Solas would recruit, if he didn’t decide to take pieces out from under Dorian’s nose. So get here first. Eyes and ears.
Simple as shitting a brick, as Rocky would say.
Krem wandered, despite the fact his moderate pack and sea-stink shouted newcomer. He needed to find somewhere with a private bath and comfortable enough to leave his things where they wouldn’t get stolen. His armor was beaten leather - nothing remarkable. Sword was just common sense, and the shield on his back might make someone interested in hiring a bit of disposable muscle. At least he knew Tevinter.
Over to his left he heard an all too familiar drinking song and shied down the first right he could. Unlike the ‘paved with gold and marble’ nonsense from Dorian’s stories, this was the real Tevinter. Dirt hard-packed around what cobblestones weren’t worth digging out to patch up the walls, apartments stacked on top of themselves, wisp signs that flickered and faded as the magic wore down, waiting for the last possible moment to pay a street mage to refresh it. Peddlers, beggars, and the horde of people just trying to make it through another day. Gardens anywhere there was a little bit of open space, or herbs growing out of the muddy cracks up the walls. Mostly for eating, but there were always flowers. Marigolds to ward off bugs, violets, pansies. Poppies with their blood-red and black showed which families had paid their permanent tax to the Qunari. And there. Sign that was fading but not flickering out yet, bird-like, probably. Snippets of conversation, a lute, and the perfect symphony of cheap wine, cheaper beer, and sausages.
Krem shouldered the door open to find a partly-lit common room with a mix of open tables, shadowed ones, seats at a bar, and a staircase. Step one complete.
“What can I get you?”
He reached back to the old days, let the city take over. “Wine, bread, hummus. Room for a few nights, if you’ve got anything open.”
The barkeep grunted. “Gold a day covers breakfast and your first drink.”
Not great, not awful. He could haggle it down a little, but not a lot. “Throw in a bath every other day and you’ve got a deal.”
“Second on the left, I’ll have your lunch sent up. Fresh off the docks?”
A key landed on the bar; Krem took it, leaving a gold in its place. “From Cumberland,” he agreed. “Thanks.”
It was dinner before he was street-presentable. The bath had been perfect. Up this far north, the last thing he wanted was hot bathwater, so waiting until his lunch came up had been nothing. Short on water and shorter on tub, it had still gotten the salt-grime off of him and made a solid start on his armor. Already he missed the Chargers, but this was something he could do, in a way no one else could. He knew Minrathous better than the upper crust did. Better than Solas, too. Binder on, shirt in a style that wasn’t quite Tevene but was close enough, and after some careful thought, left his leather armor to finish drying so he could oil it properly, choosing a simple jerkin instead. The sword, though, was coming, along with a couple knives in his boots.
Downstairs was much busier than it had been. Most of the covert tables were claimed and about two thirds of the open ones. A trio of musicians were adding background harmonies to the conversations, complaints, and various threats around the room. He slid up to the bar to get whatever was for dinner.
Fish, made into some kind of a stew. Krem inhaled it while listening to the people around him. Those were a few merchants complaining about the new factories - it hit too close to home, so he ignored that one. Another talking about his kids - nothing useful. Some kind of hushed deal being made behind him and to the right - private table, and he couldn’t get more than one word in ten anyway. Nothing useful there, either. Some half-bit enchanter was selling snake-oil in the front corner, too close to the exit to be anything legitimate. Another bust. Woman came in the door - she looked like she’d grown up in heavy armor, even if she was in street clothes. Krem kept half an eye on her, just in case, but she gave the room a sweeping look then marched straight over to a lean man wrapped around his own dinner.
“Tarquin, there’s a-”
The man sighed. “It’s not like I’m off-duty anyway. Sit down, Rana, and tell me what’s gone wrong in the archives this time.”
“Nothing. But There’s - look, I just wanted to get some information, and you’ve got everything filed to oblivion and back.”
“About?”
She lowered her voice, not that it did anything much. “Red lyrium. There’s rumors again, and I know someone looking into it.”
Now that was promising. Worrying, but promising.
“Come find me tomorrow, I’ll see what I can do. Now, are you going to let me eat or not?”
The woman left. Krem swore under his breath, but there was no real way to follow her without being painfully obvious. That left the man, who got another long glance. The Chief had taught him enough to not be painfully obvious, and he made the best use of it he could.
Lean was right - narrow shoulders, narrow face. Neatly trimmed beard but mostly ignored hair. Inkstains on his hands, or he’d been eating pomegranates. Light voice, but tired and cynical. Didn’t scream ‘guard’, so there was that. It might be his best shot.
Luckily, his bottle of wine was mostly full. He collected it and made his way over. “Mind if I join you?”
The last thing Tarquin wanted was to deal with people. That’s why he came to the Swan. Sit in a corner and look annoyed with life, you had the entire buffer of drunk and happy between you and anything that would disturb your dinner.
Of course, that all failed when Rana Savas of all people hunted him down. Damnit. And he bet that the ‘person’ she was going to have look into the red lyrium was Neve. He’d already been getting things together, it had just gone slowly because Ashur had another one of his brilliant ideas, and…
… now he had someone trying to join him. ‘Fuck off’ had almost left his mouth when he gave the other man a once-over. And twice-over. At the third, he decided to shrug. “I’m not renting it out.”
Tevene accent, but faded. Some lucky shit that had gotten away and come back again. Not a sailor, those sorts were easy to spot. Used to armor - very used to armor, based on the muscles built on that frame. Clean-shaven. Not that he was interested, but it wasn’t some drunk idiot, and he didn’t think he was about to get propositioned. He had places to be tonight.
The other man sat down. Of course he did, it’s not like Tarquin drove him off or anything. Gave one of those completely open smiles that had to be practiced. “It sounded like you were busy, so I can let you be. Just trying to find a couple people.”
“That’s not me. Just a poor Templar trying to eat.” Just where was the rest of the man’s accent from, and why did he feel so familiar? The man leaned back and gave a shrug, but something… Tarquin knew that shrug. This guy wasn’t just some merc, he’d been in the Legions.
Great. So had every third Soporati son, and a good half of the first borns, if they were trying to get a leg up and a Laetian marriage. Not many other ways to be daring and leave a good first impression on the next class up.
He’d left Tevinter. So what was he doing back?
“Well, couldn’t hurt to ask. Anyone you can point me to?”
Bingo. That was what the man was hunting. Someone connected. Not one of them Southern Templars after a mage, not enough anger there, and Tarquin’d heard tale you could smell them coming. Certainly from across a little table. Didn’t give off the scent of a fanatic, either. Which left questions. “Why’re you looking for them? I don’t play in the Threads’ territory, nor in the Magisters’ bully squads. It’s why all I do is archives.”
Head cocked a bit at Threads. Left before they came up big here, then, or from somewhere outside Minrathous. Tarquin’d never asked Neve how far the Threads reached, not when Minrathous was already more than his bit was really capable of handling.
Two answers slipped by without making it out of his mouth. The third had promise, but that was when the door to the Swan opened up and a familiar face looked past him without a sign of recognition. Rook. Which meant whatever Ashur was up to, he had to move. Now.
Perfect fucking timing.
“Nevermind, then. You’re staying here? I’ll see if I can get you a name tomorrow.” Tarquin tossed a couple coins on the table for the staff, waved at the bartender, and headed out. Sure, that man was a mystery, but he had slaves to free. A whole fucking factory of them.
Krem knew he should just let it go. The Chief would. Find someone else, ask the bartender like he’d originally planned, find a different inn and start over. But Tarquin had recognized something about him.
Given he still had an execution order hanging over his head, that was dangerous. No one should know who he was, not here. Not now, something like a decade after he’d left. Worse, someone with connections to something.
The man was smooth - so was his tipper. But the extra watcher left less than a minute later. Krem followed them. All he needed was to know he wasn’t going to have guards knocking on his door tomorrow before he’d gotten his binder on. Find out if it was some of the usual bribes and kickbacks, move on with life, find someone who could sniff around for any traces of Solas. Detective, absolutely. Mage, ideally. Laetian, that was; the last thing he needed was to trip over whatever Dorian was doing in the Magisterium.
The watcher wasn’t bad, exactly. Just new. Krem, on the other hand, had years of watching the Chief do his thing, plus Skinner, and that didn’t even count what he’d picked up while working with the Inquisition. ‘Catch Red’s latest eavesdropper’ was a game the Chargers loved to play, right up until Rocky got drunk enough to shout it out in front of one of them.
Down one street, up another - no sign of Tarquin or his tipper. She’d been lean enough to give Dalish a run for her money, but looked human. And had a set to her shoulders that hinted Seheron wasn’t that long ago for her. The tipper was qunari, but had the build of a scribe. Easy as pie to follow through the twisting streets of the teeming mass of soporati and liberati. The horns. It was always the horns, especially when there were only so many out at night. Krem let himself drift further back as the watcher looked around for any tails, then kept going toward one of the complexes of apartments, warehouses, factories, and whatever else could get built stacked on top of each other.
Factory was obvious; the doors were closed nice and tight. If it was a good one, that was to give the workers some peace and quiet. A bad one, and they were locked from the outside. Krem shivered, grateful the watcher headed into what looked like a set of apartments squeezed between the factory and who knew what on the other side.
Which, of course, is when he felt a dagger kiss his neck. “Looks like we have some talking to do after all,” Tarquin whispered behind him.
Well. Crap.
At least Krem knew enough to not jump, get his throat slit, or anything else that would make tonight worse than it already was. Tarquin didn’t have time for this shit, but he also couldn’t afford for some too-charming random showing up and following Tam. Good thing he got suspicious.
“Just end it,” Rook said.
“I’d rather you didn’t, if it’s all the same,” Krem added from his position of problem. He was keeping his hands well away from his sword, but everything stayed conversational. This wasn’t the first time for him, then. “Look, we got off on the wrong foot, and I’m willing to take the dragon’s share of that one. I got jumpy because there’s still an execution order out on me, but given the current circumstances, I don’t think you’re them. I’m here to find someone. That’s it.”
That was… potentially believable, if Tarquin believed in hilariously suspicious accidental encounters. “Why’d you talk to me?”
“Red lyrium.” The answer came promptly. “If you’re trying to keep that off the street, then you’re not Venatori. Spent time with the Inquisition, so I know that much.”
Rook hissed. Tarquin glared at her.
Great. Just fucking great. He put his dagger away. “Fine, then. Come with us and show us just how Southern you’ve gotten. If you survive, you’ll get your name.”
It was the fastest way to deal with it all, and it wouldn’t take much for one of the Shadows to take him out. Not just Rook - Tam still had a lot to learn about tails, but they were damn good with magic. Especially the sneaky sort. Too bad Viper hadn’t gotten them training early enough for them to be good at the rest of it, but beggars couldn’t be choosers, and that was the life of a liberati.
Tarquin let Krem lead them into the building. “Up the stairs, last door on the left.”
“What’s the plan?”
He waited until they were far enough in. “Getting the slaves out of the factory next door.”
Krem nodded. “And since the doors are locked and warded… roof?”
“They figured that one out a year ago,” Rook answered for him. “So we got creative.”
Inside the last apartment, still half-reconstructed, Krem looked at the wall and started laughing. “Oh, damn. The Chief would love you guys. What Altus with a stick up his ass would think of warding every brick in the wall? It’s perfect.”
Now he pulled a dagger, positioned himself next to one of them, and waited.
Charming and smart. This man was either going to die or turn into a useful ally. Tarquin knew better than to hope for the latter, so he just prayed that when it all went down, it didn’t get in the way of their rescue mission. He nodded to Krem and Tam. “Nice and fast. Quiet’s a second choice.”
Nothing about this process was going to be stealthy, even with Tam and Rook holding up the higher bricks so the whole wall didn’t come tumbling down. On the other hand, it was the middle of the night and they’d bribed the overseer of this particular construction project - from a source that looked like one of the factory owners’ enemies. If it got found out, that was fine, so long as they had time to get everyone away.
Those that would come, Tarquin amended bitterly. Not every slave could believe that freedom was actually possible, and he couldn’t blame them. Recaptured slaves were not treated well. There’d been more than a few over the years, much as he hated each and every one. And they were damn good about getting more out and free than the random vigilantes, for whatever good that did his conscience.
As soon as there was enough space, Krem darted through. Tarquin followed hot on his heels, swearing under his breath. The last thing they needed now was a problem…
And of course, they got one. Krem took the first blow on his dagger, but the second cut through the side of his jerkin before he could draw a sword or dodge.
Guards. This fucker had guards. Armed ones, in the middle of the night. The one Krem was facing, and another three coming for them. They’d been stationed at intervals down the factory floor. “Rook!”
The slaves stayed right where they were on their machines. Shackled, then. Fuck. This was turning into an unmitigated disaster. He killed the guard that cut Krem, Rook took out the second that almost got him in the back, and Tam tore out enough more bricks to fit through and start getting the slaves freed. Lockpicks or spellcraft, that’s what they were here for.
Quick and dirty, even with the shouting of the guards - and thank Ashur’s splashy whatever elsewhere, there weren’t more than the five. Tarquin kept his sword in his hand. “Rook? Tam?”
“Working on it,” Tam answered. “Fifteen.”
Rook looked up from the last of the guards. “All down. Shit!” She headed for Krem, hands already glowing. “This is going to hurt. Healing’s not my specialty, but I can at least stop it long enough to get out of here.”
Krem grit his teeth, but there was plenty of blood dripping around. Looked like he’d taken a glancing blow, but it snuck between two ribs and left a bloody gash down his side. Which meant cleanup or getting Krem the fuck out of Minrathous as fast as he could. That much blood would be traceable. “Fine.”
Great. Tarquin turned to the slaves. “Whoever wants to get out of Minrathous, come over here. We’ve got coin and safe passage. Sea or land, over the next couple days.” He debated for a moment, but most of the slaves weren’t moving. “Bring the light.”
That got a few’s attention. The first, an older man started moving and the rest began to follow. Three refused.
“You get one second chance. Sit down if you want to be left behind, but no one’s going to re-shackle you.”
They sat.
Fuck, he hated their ‘betters’ and what they’d done to the Imperium.
The first stopped in front of Rook. “I can sew him up.” Held up needle and thread. “I was a tailor before-”
Krem coughed. “Da?”
This couldn’t have gone any worse. First, getting caught like a rank novice. The Chargers would never let him live that one down. Second, getting himself cut up because… well, because he was acting like a rank novice and charging into the unknown with nothing but a dagger. Third?
“Cremisius Ac-”
“Not now, Da,” Krem interrupted. “Please. I’m fine for now, let’s just get everyone out.”
Thank the Maker, Tarquin agreed. “This way. We’ll explain everything on the other side, after the wall’s bricked back up.” He hesitated. “Rook?”
The woman twisted her lips but nodded. “I’ll help these three make sure they can’t be used against us.”
His father insisted on giving him a shoulder. Which he needed. He’d lost a lot of blood before he’d gotten patched, and that wasn’t good. Once on the other side, the rest of the former slaves worked fast in adding enough mortar - already prepared - to the bricks and slotting them back in place. Rook eeled through the last bit of opening, then nodded.
“What are you doing here? No, of course you’d put your lot in with the Shadow Dragons. You’re not telling me the order’s been lifted, are you?”
“No. It’s… look. I’ve got a room at a tavern. Space for us both.” Shadow whats?
Tarquin considered them. “That’s the last place you can go looking like that, and you know it. Or would if it weren’t for the blood loss. You two, come with me. Tam, Rook, take the rest into the catacombs and split.”
The two looked at each other before the qunari nodded. “Sea travel with me. No going back, but I’ll take names and locations of any family and do my best.”
It didn’t take long for all of them to vanish down the apartment complex. Whoever these shadow whatsits were, they were professionals. Dealt with an unexpected tail, then in and out and gone in what, half an hour? And none of it was legal.
Tarquin sighed. “Take off the jerkin and shirt, I’ll stuff them in the bucket and you can have my jacket.”
Take off…
Oh. No. Sure he had his binder, but it’d been cut through, too. Just luck it was somewhere that wasn’t obvious. “It’s fine,” Krem insisted, “I’ll just… it’s dark. If I pretend I’m drunk, no one will look twice.”
The other man narrowed his eyes, then sighed. “We’re going to have to have a talk.”
Headquarters, then. Well, if it meant Krem could talk to his father a little alone and get the stitching done that way, he’d survive. It would work. Somehow.
The route was equally a mess, especially since Tarquin refused to take the two of them through the catacombs. Sensible precaution, given everything. They went from fitfully lit streets to ones where the lights just highlighted all the shadows, with the expected increase in noise, feral creatures, and stink. Krem breathed through his mouth as shallowly as he could, stumbling and mentally cursing in five languages as each one reminded him how stupid he’d been to get cut at all. That part, he’d have to leave out of the rest.
Finally, Tarquin ducked into a doorway. Some kind of chapel - guess it made sense that there were chapels even in the slums - with a rough-carved block of stone that was certainly supposed to be a woman, so probably was Andraste. The man pressed something behind her, and the wall to their right cracked open. “This way.”
One tunnel, a bridge, something Krem didn’t notice, and another hidden door led them to a small safehouse. Had to be. One person there, some wine and dried food, a medical kit that got thrown to Tarquin as soon as he asked, somewhere to shit, and a closet pretending to be a bedroom, where he and his father were shuffled to, with a bucket of water.
That meant he could finally let his father help him take off his jerkin and shirt. His binder was… a complete loss, Krem had to admit. Too much blood to save. But his spare was off in his room, further away than he wanted to admit.
“What - you look good,” his father said. “Didn’t even recognize you, son.”
Son. Even after everything, his father understood. Krem swallowed down the knot in his throat. “I’ve felt better. Does it need stitches or just salve and bandages? How’re you doing?”
“Stitches, but not many. It split the muscle there. It’s been - well. It’s better now. You know what happened with your mother, and staying in the publicus wound up not happening. Don’t worry about it. And the Shadow Dragons? Why on earth did you come back? It wasn’t just for me, was it?”
Krem breathed through the stitching, then salve hit and bandages. Between the bandages and the not-bloody parts of his binder, he felt… well, not normal, but almost able to survive Tarquin and whatever questions were out there. “It’s a long story, Da. And I’m not exactly with them. But there’s no point in explaining it twice. Can you see if there’s a spare shirt I can put on?”
Around his father was one thing, but he didn’t want to be anything but himself in front of anyone else in Tevinter. Especially with his name floating around. No need to risk chance any further.
Luckily, a shirt was handed in almost immediately. Krem pulled it over his head, swearing in Qunlat at the way he stretched his new stitches. Unfortunately, there was only one way out, and that was going to require a whole lot more truth than he’d really wanted to use right now.
“Let’s go.”
Cremisius. That name meant something, especially attached to someone from Tevinter’s army, but what it was escaped Tarquin almost until he’d gotten them to one of the disposable safe houses.
Then he shooed out Remus to tell Ashur what went down and that he wouldn’t be around for another day and collapsed in a chair. Cremisius Aclassi. He’d bet money on it, and he was the furthest thing from a betting man. He’d been in all of a year when it went down, and had heard the shouting matches between old Charon Mercar and not a few of the other generals. Good thing it was Charon who ended up winning that particular battle, but it still wasn’t easy for men like him. Them.
For all he hated his father, at least Tarquin had been given the opportunity to… well, change himself. One blood mage, and as much as she could do with his personal agony, because he’d refused to buy a slave to sacrifice for his comfort. Enough to grow a beard, enough to keep the worst of the symptoms at bay without needing expensive potions. Enough to manage to skate through his required service and leave before anyone decided to start mixing up healers and units again and find out just what he had - or didn’t - in his pants.
When the elder Aclassi called out for a shirt, Tarquin gave him the spare they had, and didn’t ask anything else. Instead he opened a bottle of wine, sliced up some cheese and sausages, and waited.
If he looked, he could see the signs. Even after all these hours, Krem’s face looked fresh-shaven. His discomfort with healing or stripping. The reason he came after them, given Rook had just gotten back from Seheron two years ago, and she’d done her time and more in that blighted jungle.
“Drink up. We’ve only got one bed, but we’ll stay here for the night, let things die down.” He glanced at the older of the two. “Go ahead and take it first, you look wiped.”
He looked between them until Krem nodded. “It’ll be fine. But first, I owe both of you a whole lot more of what’s going on. I’d hoped to find you, Da, but that’s not why I came to Minrathous. I need someone who can find a very specific person. And that means I need the best.”
Tarquin snorted. “Just who are you chasing down, the Divine’s paramour?”
“An elven god.”
There went his wine, all over the plate of cheese. “You - fuck. You’re serious.”
“Dead serious.” Krem took a bite from his plate and talked around it. “You remember the whole Breach and that? The rifts everywhere? I don’t think you had many here, but you certainly had the Venatori.”
“Still do.”
“There you go. It turns out that all of it was… well, kicked off by Solas. We didn’t know then. Or that he was the Dalish Dread Wolf, Fen’harel. But we do now. And it turns out that was just his first attempt. He wants to take down the Veil, no matter who dies in the process.”
They all knew who’d die. Hadn’t they had enough experience with the Magisters and their little games? Slaves. Liberati. Soporati. They already died often enough to blood magic or demons in the streets, and this would only make it worse.
“You want someone to hunt down an ancient, semi-immortal elf. Is he a god?”
Krem shrugged. “At some point, does it matter? He’s somniari, and damned powerful. I came because I was just a hanger-on, someone that didn’t matter. At least from that perspective. I was just a soldier with the Inquisition.”
He doubted that, but let Krem keep the lie. The half-dozen names that he’d considered giving Krem tomorrow shrank to one. “Gallus. No guarantees, but if anyone can find him in Minrathous, it’s Gallus. She’s smart, she’s a mage, and she’s got connections everywhere in the underbelly of the Imperium.” She’d also pass on anything she thought the Shadow Dragons should know, but that was just a side benefit. He’d have to tell Ashur, who’d shit his pants when he found out what Tarquin had just gotten involved in. Why did it always happen to him?
He stewed in plans and counter-plans while the other two talked for a bit. Didn’t even occur to him that Krem might be lying. No one would come up with anything that fucking crazy, just to keep from getting killed by a couple of anti-slavery vigilantes. More than a couple, but that didn’t matter, either.
Ashur, for sure. Lorelei, she knew the elven side of things better than he did. Rook, probably. She had connections to the army still, and the Legion couldn’t know, but she could probably let him in on whether there was any risk of them being compromised more than they already were. Savas? No. Rana Savas was damned good at her job, but he didn’t trust her that far. He’d have to be the one to see what came through the Templar reports he filed, see what he could dig out of the oldest ones.
Eventually, the elder Aclassi went to bed, leaving the two of them.
“So,” Krem said.
This was the man he could see old Mercar being furious at having lost. Clear-eyed, direct, able to handle whatever fuckery came his way and keep thinking. The perfect aide. “I haven’t heard the name Cremissius Aclassi in ages,” he said, watching the other man stiffen. “You should have heard the screaming matches when everything went down. Not enough to get rid of the whole issue, but enough to make some changes. I did my two, then left. Just happened to be in the right spot to overhear a few of the conversations from three tents down.”
“So what’re you going to do?”
“Not a fucking thing.” Tarquin poured both of them more wine. “I’ve never been particularly good at following orders. Though I did want to ask where you’re getting your potions. I… well. I don’t need them that often, but I know people who do. Not everyone’s able to find a friendly blood mage, after all.”
Krem turned that bit over in his head before letting out a long breath. Tarquin didn't need potions that often, which meant... he could tell the truth. “It’s been tough. Used to get them from someone who had contacts into the Qunari. They’ve got aqun athlok - kind of like me. Us, I guess. But that dried up a few years ago. I’ve been making do since. If I can get a recipe, I’ve got people who could brew it up, probably.”
“That’ll be harder to pull off. Potions, I can come up with tomorrow. At least enough for a few weeks. I can send you more, too. But she’s a squirrely woman and isn’t inclined to let anyone else get a corner of her market.”
“Send them to Kirkwall, care of Varric Tethras.”
Wait. “But isn’t he-”
“You think anyone’s going to care? It’s all southern nonsense, right? I can’t afford for my name to be connected to Minrathous right now. Not with everything going on with Solas, so this is the next best thing.”
Point. Tarquin took another drink, then stood up. “Yeah, I can do that. I’m going to leave you here for a bit and grab a couple things. Your binder?”
“Next thing to trash, but I’ve got another in my bags. I’ll be fine til I can get there, if you can get a breastplate or something. And… thanks.”
It was his turn to shrug. “You think these elven gods are any good?”
“I think they had better advertising than our Magisterium.”
“Well, then. Looks like it’s just another set of bastards to deal with. We’re in.” And wouldn’t Ashur be thrilled? “I’ll be back sometime tomorrow. Just make yourself at home.”
That got a snort. “Not the first safehouse I’ve been in. Where are the cards?”
“Little table, top drawer.”
At that, Tarquin slipped out the door - easy to spot from this side. He had things to do, and that list had just doubled. On the other hand?
Well, it didn’t hurt for the Shadow Dragons to have one more ally. Cremissius Aclassi, which meant his whole merc company, if Tarquin wasn’t mistaken, and possibly more than that. A whole shitload of people who wouldn’t be fond of slavery, and based on Krem, were more than capable of doing something useful about it.
Yeah, they just bit off a new enemy, but he suspected the new friends would be more than worth it.