Chapter Text
Jader was loud. That was the first thought Ellarin was struck with as she made her way through the bustling market in the direction of port. She shouldn’t have felt intimidated by the noise, and she’d deny it if she were asked about it, but she was at the very least uncomfortable. She could barely hear herself think over the call of merchants from their shops, the braying of pack animals as they lumbered down the road alongside pedestrians, and the general grating clamor that was bound to happen whenever hundreds of people were packed into one small square.
It didn’t help that she could feel the weight of curious eyes on her as she advanced through the crowd. Staring wasn’t anything she wasn’t used to, but this wasn’t the kind of staring she got in the Inquisition. People weren’t watching her in awe, waiting for her to do or say something— anything —that would befit her lofty title and inspire those around her. Although of course she hated that staring, too. No, this time they were watching her with expressions that Ellarin recognized all too well. They were watching her with fear—poorly disguised fear, at that. She saw it in the way they gave her a wide berth, stepping into each other and hugging the wall to avoid brushing against her. The quickness with which they clutched at their things and tucked their valuables to the side as if they were in some sort of danger. The way that guards’ hands hovered at the blades at their belts when they saw her approach, not as a threat, but as a just in case.
Here in this new city, Ellarin wasn’t the Inquisitor. She was just some Qunari brute with a sword on her back. She was the living embodiment of an unsheathed weapon or overcharged spell; she was a free radical, a fight waiting to happen, a threat just by the nature of existing. It didn’t matter that she was really none of those things—not here, not this time around. People just took one look at her horns and gray skin and decided they knew everything they would need to know about her. She was dumb, violent, a slave to promised coin or the Qun. They were assumptions that she’d lived with all her life.
They were wrong, of course, but here and now they were also very helpful. Her race made her intimidating but also anonymous. No one was looking at her face; they were watching her muscles and weapons. Some people were familiar with the Inquisitor’s likeness, but Ellarin still hadn’t seen a public sketching or bit of propaganda that did her justice. Her face was always off, horns pointed the wrong way, skin too light or too dark. No one had taken the time to draw her scars, so no one knew to look for them in person. Despite essentially manning the front of the Inquisition since its start, she was yet to be recognized as who she really was once she was out of her Inquisition armor and away from her known associates and companions. She was banking on that anonymity now.
The city was packed with all sorts—humans, dwarves, elves, all bustling into each other and looking exceptionally busy and irritated. There were even a few Tal-Vashoth ambling about who regarded Ellarin with open interest, as if they were sizing her up. Likely gauging to see if she was new competition for contracts or trying to place which company, if any, she was in. It wasn’t usual to see a Tal-Vashoth (or a Vashoth in her case, although they wouldn’t know that on sight) operating alone, so the sight of a new face with weapons on her back no doubt piqued their curiosity. She nodded at each of them but didn’t stop to talk. What would there be to say, really?
Ellarin’s stomach grumbled. It was an unwelcome reminder that she hadn’t eaten properly since leaving Skyhold. It had been four days since then, and beyond the dried foods Josephine had packed in her carriage and the occasional caught rabbit Ellarin managed to catch, it had been a hard trip. She’d expected that there would have been plenty of food stored in the number of Inquisition halfway houses peppered throughout the Frostback, but they had all turned up nothing. A recent influx of pilgrims making their way to Skyhold had worn down the stores, it seemed. They would be replenished as soon as some of Harding’s scouts sent runners down with provisions, but that wouldn’t retroactively fill Ellarin and Josephine’s stomachs.
She had plenty of coin and hours to pass before their boat shipped out, and Josephine had already gone ahead to secure their things on board. She might as well find some food and catch her breath.
Finding food, as it turned out, was no challenge. The main road that led from the city’s main gates to the harbor took Ellarin straight through the center market. It was a large area; the layout was that of an open air collection of stalls, carts, and walking salesmen in the middle of the square with rows and rows of brick and mortar shops lining the side streets. The variety of items being sold were standard for a big city like this one, but still impressive—clothing, books, jewelry, art. Musicians plied their trade as well, winding seamlessly through the crowd as they sang and played their instruments, followed closely behind by companions collecting tips. Strange, exotic spices hung in the air, clashing at times with the smell of food and flowers and sweat.
Jader was the closest major Orlesian city to Ferelden, and it showed. It lacked the purposeful refinement of Val Royeaux, whose residents were primarily concerned with putting on airs and making it clear just how seriously they took themselves and their games. In contrast, Jader felt more lifelike. There were still some Orlesians walking around with idiotic masks and elaborate outfits on, but they weren’t the norm. If Val Royeaux were more like this, perhaps Ellarin wouldn’t hate it so much.
Still, Ellarin didn’t have much of an interest in sightseeing, and she couldn’t quite shake the feeling of claustrophobia that clung to her the deeper she pushed in the square. All the restaurants nearby were packed with patrons, and she had no desire in trying to squeeze her way into the middle of them just to find a meal. Better to find something quick and keep walking, then. Find somewhere further away from the market to sit and rest a bit.
A corner stall eventually caught her eye. It was modest, manned by a single woman behind a wooden stand. Fruit and dried meats were laid out in front of her. It was nothing fancy, but Ellarin wasn’t looking for fancy. All she needed was something to tide her over until her next actual meal and some rest, and the woman’s prices were cheaper than its neighboring shops.
There was a small group of people standing nearby, but they more or less cleared out as Ellarin approached. The woman, old and wizened with white hair framing her face like an unkempt mane, looked Ellarin up and down and scowled.
“Fifteen copper for a bundle,” she announced in lieu of a good afternoon.
“Your sign says ten copper,” Ellarin said, looking up at the hand-painted prices above the stall.
“It’s fifteen.” The woman’s expression and tone signalled that she wasn’t interested in haggling prices any further. Luckily for her, neither was Ellarin.
Without further argument, Ellarin put her coin down before grabbing a small burlap sack and beginning to stuff some fruit inside. She took her time inspecting each one; she was hardly a picky eater, but she was bringing some back for Josephine too. After their trip—with the the cold wind, scarce food, and admittedly lacking company on Ellarin’s part—Ellarin felt like spoiling her a little bit. She might as well start by making sure that none of her breakfast had bumps and bruises.
“Passing through?” the shopkeep asked, her voice cutting off Ellarin’s train of thought. She eyed the hilt of Ellarin’s sword over her shoulder and the axe dangling from her belt, and spat at the ground when Ellarin grunted and gave a terse nod. “Folks like you should pass through a bit faster .”
“Meaning?” Ellarin asked, although she knew perfectly well what the merchant meant.
She glared at Ellarin, trying to size up if she was really too dumb to understand or if she was just being difficult. “Bad for business, you are.”
“Can’t be too bad for business. You’ve got my coin, don’t you?”
The woman shook her head, pretending that she hadn’t heard the question although she dropped Ellarin’s money into her apron’s pocket all the same. “Scaring off my customers, armed to the teeth, and then you wonder why the guards run you off.”
“No one’s run me off yet.”
Another scowl, another glance at Ellarin’s weapons. “This was a respectable town before you lot started coming through.”
Ellarin looked at the woman passively before grabbing another apple and flinging a bit of bronze onto the top of her stall. She said nothing else, simply turned and let herself get swept up in the tide of people walking past. She ambled on in search of somewhere to sit and drink.
The woman’s words hadn’t gotten under Ellarin’s skin. She’d heard far worse in her time as a mercenary, and worse still from supposedly reverent Chantry mothers who balked at the idea of someone like her being seen as a vessel of Andraste. If anything, the shopkeep had been refreshing in comparison. Small-scale, uncomplicated racism. How quaint. Memories, unbidden but not unwelcome, came rushing back of the life she’d had before. A life full of women (and men) like the one in the market. It was fearful, angry folk like that who forced Ellarin to pick up a sword at the age of ten, determined to protect her family home in case anyone from the village down the way ever tried to make good on their threats. Swordplay turned into formal training which turned into a steady stream of work before Ellarin had the chance to choose any other path in life. By the time her commander picked up the infamous Conclave contract, Ellarin had been with the Valo-Kas for nearly seven years. All because people like that woman had hated her and her family on principle.
Some of her kind didn’t accept that sort of discrimination. If Shokrakar were here, Ellarin would have needed to drag him out of the market to stop him from overturning the woman’s stall and causing a scene. He’d ruined a good number of their company’s contracts that way in the past—going off on a potential patron all because they’d given him a bad look or made some snide comment about Qunari brutes. Ellarin’s mother had been much the same; she’d risked her, her father’s, and Ellarin’s lives in order to escape Par Vollen, and she wouldn’t allow anyone in their new homeland to imply that she was a brainwashed monster still loyal to the Qun. She didn’t get violent like Shokrakar—didn’t shout curses and lunge at her offender—but the fire in her eyes alone was often enough to send the average Free Marcher running for cover.
Ellarin had never been like that. She accepted early on that people would always hate her because of who she was, and she had no desire to rage against it. It was boring and futile, and all that really mattered at the end of the day was safety. People could talk as they pleased, as long as they knew that it ended with talk. Plenty of townsfolk had gone home with broken bones after trying to lay hands on Ellarin or her parents, and she never apologized for it.
Lost in thought as she was, Ellarin was slow to realize that she’d walked further off the main road than planned. Looking around, she tried to get a sense of where she was. It was less shiny here and certainly less crowded, both of which suited her just fine. The smooth, polished walkways of her original path had given way to uneven cobblestone, and now there were more homes than shops hugging the street. There were still quite a few inns and taverns, though, and Ellarin slipped into the one which looked coziest. It was for the most part empty, and the man behind the bar pointed her towards a back alley behind the building when she asked for somewhere even more private. She ordered a small meal of bread and venison and a pint of ale before stepping out into the alley and sitting down at a rickety table and barstool.
The food was simple, but after days of next to nothing it tasted like a dream. The ale was even better—were he here, Bull would have laughed in her face for drinking something so much weaker than their usual fare, but that hardly mattered. Her drink was gone before she even started to touch her food.
Just as she began to well and truly relax, Ellarin felt a body in close proximity to hers. She tensed, fingers flicking for her axe, before her new company crossed into her line of vision and came to sit at the stool opposite hers. Warily, still ready to draw her weapon if needed, she looked him over. He was a man. A young man. Short and thin, couldn’t have been older than twenty, and had a crop of messy blond curls that fell just shy of his brows. He glanced over his shoulder before speaking next, and even then he kept his voice too quiet for someone inside or nearby to overhear.
“Inquisitor,” he said. “Nice to see you’ve made it to town.”
“Puck?” Ellarin asked. Her point of contact in Jader.
He nodded and flashed her with a toothy grin. “Good to finally meet you.” He stuck his hand out for Ellarin to shake. “Officially, anyway. I’ve been an agent since Haven, so I’ve seen you around plenty.”
Ellarin tried to remember him, to place him in one of her memories from Haven or Skyhold. If he’d been with the Inquisition for that long, there was no way they hadn’t crossed paths at least once. And if he knew where to find her in this random back alley ale house, then he’d almost certainly been trailing her since she arrived in Jader. But despite knowing that, she still felt like she was seeing him for the first time. Was he that good, or was she just getting rusty? How had she let herself walk all through town without once noticing that she was being followed? Good spies didn’t tend to get recognized, she supposed. His ability to escape her notice was probably a testament to his skills, if not still a little unnerving.
Puck gestured at the food that Ellarin had laid out. “Got some for me?”
She pushed her plate forward, watching him closely. “If you want.”
She leaned back in her chair as he broke off a piece of the bread and tucked some meat inside. She was struck by how young he seemed—perhaps a bit too young to be in this particular line of work. Ellarin wasn’t one to micromanage Leliana and her hires, but she wondered how Puck had come across spy work at all. Maybe if Ellarin got to know him better one day, she would ask. Not now, though. If he were taking the risk of revealing himself and speaking to her semi-publicly, then that meant he had important information for her.
“So, what’s the situation?” Ellarin asked finally.
Puck looked up from his food, eyes bright and clear. “Your ship’s here, but it’s not going anywhere.”
“What do you mean? Has departure been delayed?”
“Everything has,” he said simply. He looked back down at his hands, picking at his bread some more before continuing on. “Storms off the Waking Sea have delayed most all of the ships coming in. Everything that’s already in port is being held for the time being.”
Ellarin frowned. She already felt bone-weary after the journey from Skyhold, and the news of yet another complication to deal with was the last thing she needed to hear. “How long has this been going on?”
“Couple days. Traders in town are kicking up a right fuss about it, but a spice shipment from Val Chevin already overturned off the coast and no captain wants to risk their crew.”
Storms. Of course. How appropriate that Ellarin would bungle one of her first real diplomatic missions not because of any misstep or oversight of her own, but because of the damn weather. Depending on how long this lasted, she and Josephine could easily arrive in Cumberland to find their magister friends already gone. If news of the storms was making the rounds in Jader, they’d probably heard of it in Cumberland, too. None of the Tevinters could blame her for being late over something that clearly wasn’t her fault, could they? Maybe, maybe not. This was all a delicate business, and any delay in schedule might spook them, regardless of the reason for it.
Ellarin sighed and rubbed absentmindedly at one of her horns. Part of her wanted to call the whole operation off here. This already felt like far more trouble than it was worth, and she could think of at least ten things offhand that she’d rather be doing. But that was just idle irritation. She knew that if she changed course and brought them back to Skyhold now, Josephine might never forgive her for it.
“Do you have any idea when we’ll be shipping out, then?” she asked. “We can’t wait here forever.”
“Hard to say. It’s up to your captain.”
“And who’s our captain?”
“Garran Lehoux. Orlesian.” Puck reached into his pocket and handed Ellarin a copy of the ship’s manifest. Some basic information about Captain Lehoux was included on the back. “He’s been based out of Jader for a few years as the main transporter for a local winery. His normal operation’s usually hauling wine to and from Cumberland, but he recently got a bigger ship and started taking passengers along for the extra coin.”
“Who are the extra passengers this time around?”
“None.” Puck smirked, looking very much like Sera after she’d finished setting up a particularly irritating prank and was waiting for the other shoe to drop. “Or I should say, none now. He had five extras booked, but I’ve heard that they all ended up having to cancel their trips. Personal reasons. Who’s to say?”
“Personal reasons,” Ellarin repeated, not sure if she even wanted to know the details.
“Bad for them, lucky for us,” Puck said brightly. “You, me, and Montilyet are the only non-crew passengers. Apparently Lehoux’s been known to pick up last minute stragglers on the docks, but there’s nothing I can do about that. Maker willing, it’ll be an empty ship.”
“And if it’s not?”
“Shouldn’t matter too much. Just keep your head down and don’t flash your Anchor hand around anyone,” he winked. “I’ll be keeping an eye in case there’s trouble or you need something, but my cover is as a deckhand. Mostly I’ll be scrubbing floors and being inconspicuous. So try not to need me.” Almost as an afterthought, he added, “And your cover’s all set. Montilyet’s a merchant from Montfort and you’re her hired muscle. No one should pay you any mind.”
Ellarin simply sat forward and pushed the rest of her plate towards Puck. Optimism aside, she knew there was a world of difference between should and would. In her experience, people paid her plenty of mind whether she wanted them to or not.
“I want to talk to Lehoux about this. See when he’s planning on shipping out.”
“I don’t know how likely you are to catch him. He was on deck this morning, but he hasn’t been at port for hours. Eyes have him visiting family on the edge of town. Looked like he was carrying clothes for the night, so you probably won’t catch him back at the ship until tomorrow at the earliest.”
Almost as an afterthought, Ellarin realized that Josephine was probably wandering about the docks quite confused as to why their ship was shuttered and abandoned. “Regardless, I need to go see the ship,” she said as she pushed out her chair and stood.
“What for?”
“Josephine’s at the harbor, so I figure I should tell her the bad news. Are you coming?”
Puck shook his head and Ellarin immediately felt foolish for asking. He gestured for her to wait a moment as he fished something else out of his pocket. Once he’d grabbed it he dangled it in front of him, letting Ellarin appraise it before he tossed it over. It was a long gold key with a small roll of parchment tied to the end. Unfurling the paper just a bit, Ellarin saw that an address was scrawled onto it in graceful looping letters. She didn’t ask Puck what it was, electing to simply tuck it away and cock an eyebrow at him.
“Your lodgings for the night,” he explained. “Courtesy of Marquise Emmiard. Make sure you’re not being followed when you go and try not to make too much of a mess when you’re there. But it’s yours and the Ambassador’s until your ship leaves. I hope it’s to your liking.”
“If it has a proper bed it’s to my liking already,” Ellarin said, chancing a small smile. “See you soon, Puck. I suppose you know where to find me if you need me.”
“That I do, Inquisitor,” he said smoothly. “‘Til then.”
Ellarin turned and left the alley, off to find Josephine and—hopefully—get her first good night’s rest in days. Given the journey ahead, she imagined that she would need it.