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Blackwall was not a social sort of man. He didn’t venture into the downtown area unless there was something he needed, usually for work. The corner store a few blocks down from the garage provided enough sustenance that even grocery shopping rarely drew him into the more crowded parts of the city. In the two years he’d been in Kassel, he had only a handful of recurring clients, and only one who regularly spoke to him—Varric Tethras, whose main career path seemed to be snarky remarks and penny romance novels. Blackwall had spent ages wondering how Varric got by when he never seemed to do anything, until he revealed his family was part of the dwarven trading guild. In other words, Varric didn’t need to work. He’d also agreed to loan Blackwall a die grinder, as his last one had broken, and he didn’t currently have the funds to spend on new one if he didn’t have to yet. Rather than coming to the shop, or allowing Blackwall to just stop by the hotel where he lived, Varric insisted Blackwall swing by the pub where he spent far too much of his time. But he did also offer to buy Blackwall a drink, so it wasn’t a total loss.
Kassel wasn’t such a bad place—it was a step up from other places he’d stayed in the last several years, and the car repair business was keeping him above water. It felt like a place he could settle for a while, but as always, his mere existence was plagued with uncertainties. At any time, he might overstay his welcome in Kassel and have to flee, and even while he was there, it was impossible to put down roots while living under an assumed name. In short—Blackwall grew tired of life on the lam. But it was the only life left to him.
He was on his way out of the pub, headed for the bus stop, when a call from a nearby car stopped him.
“Hey, sugar! Fancy seeing you here!” From the pet name alone he could have guessed who it was, never mind the voice or the familiar drawl. Blackwall turned to see Iona Cadash grinning at him from the passenger window of a sleek yellow car, dressed in a crisp gray suit, red suspenders peeking out of the coat, as if she were off to a business meeting. He’d not yet seen her with so much as a hair out of place, beyond the occasional artfully disheveled touches. It made him at once acutely aware of his own appearance—something Varric had once referred to as “hobo chic”.
“Miss Cadash,” he greeted her with a formal tone, inclining his head slightly. “The day’s gotten better already.” Her smile widened, a captivating glimmer in her eyes.
“Now, what are you doing walking around on foot like that? Don’t tell me your car broke down!” The yellow car continued at a crawl to keep pace with Blackwall.
“Driving around downtown is a nightmare,” Blackwall said. “At least if there’s a crash on the bus, it won’t be my fault.”
“Are you saying you need a ride?” Miss Cadash’s fingers drummed along the car door. Her own was laid up in his very shop—that was part of what he needed the die grinder for. He had assumed the slightly saucy attitude presented both times she stopped by his garage was just her personality, but this felt…more personal than that. This made him feel the fool for brushing off the way she’d looked at him when she dropped her car off.
Still, exploring it was not an option—being on the run did not allow for pursuing the interest of beautiful lovers, not least of all because someday, if it went far enough, he would have to tell her the truth, and that idea was terrifying enough to convince him never to speak to her again.
“No, my lady, I think I’ll enjoy the walk.” Miss Cadash’s companion in the car said something he didn’t catch, and they had a quick exchange before she turned back to him, the late morning light illuminating the skin around her freckles, making him think of constellations up in the mountains, far outside the city limits.
“Come on now, Blackwall, let us give you a ride,” she cajoled. Getting into a lady’s car was the last thing he needed to be doing. In fact, it was irresponsible that he had even allowed things to go this far. Miss Cadash was a nice woman, and did not deserve to be dragged into his sordid tale—nor could he stand the sense of betrayal when she finally got ahold of the truth.
“I can’t, Miss Cadash. I have a few more errands to run—more parts to pick up for your car.”
“More parts?” she asked. “Well, do let me know if I can help you with any of it. I’ve got a man, if you need him. Gorim can get ahold of anything, direct from Orzammar! Not a bad fellow, even if he does consort with the Aeducans.” Blackwall was more accustomed to clients who hounded his every step and constantly argued with the pricing of things than he was to those like Miss Cadash, who seemed keen to assist only as far as welcome with every step of the process. “I know I’m asking a lot, having it ready in time to go out of town, but if you can manage, I’ll be sure to repay you for it.”
“I’ll do my best,” he promised. If that meant putting off other projects until hers was done—well, no one was dying because he took a day or two longer to get their car running again.
“Smart man, I’m sure you’ll manage,” she said, a smile twisting up her lips. “Now are you sure we can’t drive you along? Maybe it’s on our way. Where are you off to?”
“There’s somebody behind us,” Miss Cadash’s companion told her.
“They can go around,” Miss Cadash said with an impatient wave of her hand. Her expression softened at once when she turned back to Blackwall. Why the car behind her didn’t honk or scream obscenities felt like a good question, but it just plowed along at the same inching speed that Miss Cadash was going.
“So, where are you headed, sugar?”
“Out of your way, I’m sure,” he replied. Fending off persistent women was not a problem Blackwall could say he’d had…ever. Miss Cadash flashed a moue.
“Determined to be mysterious, hm? I’ll get your secrets someday, Blackwall,” she teased, with no way of knowing how she made a chill go down his back. “Alright then, be off. We have felonies to commit!” She flashed a grin and her companion finally put her foot down on the gas, taking them off down the street. Blackwall let out a long breath. Miss Cadash would move on. She was a fine-dressed young woman—maybe she, like Varric, came from money, and found something exciting in chasing after a working man. It was an interest that would fade quickly; by the time she had her car back, she’d have forgotten about him, he was sure.
Just for a moment, he wondered what Thom Rainier would have done.
***
It would have been foolish to think he had seen the last of Miss Cadash. Still, some part of Blackwall had accepted that the repairs on her car would be the end of her teasing comments and flirtatious looks. That was how she managed to catch him by surprise on a warm Tuesday morning. The clock hadn’t yet hit ten, and already he could tell the day was cooking up to be a real sweltering show—sweat was beading up along his back and neck even in the garage, out of the sun’s insistent shine. The clack of heels against the smooth concrete alerted him to the presence of a customer in his shop, and he rolled out from under the car he was underneath to see one Iona Cadash hanging around the garage’s entrance, dressed in a creamy white polka-dot dress, fiery auburn locks done up glossy and neat, as out-of-place in the garage as a daisy growing in a dump.
“Lady Cadash,” he said, hastening to his feet to wipe his hands on his coveralls—no chance to freshen up now, but that was best. Trying to dress his life up to be something nicer than it was wouldn’t discourage her, or present her with the reality of it. “Now what brings you around here? I hope that patch hasn’t given in already!”
“Oh, no,” she assured him with that smile of hers—the one that screamed trouble, the one paired with a slight tilt of her head that created a look far too impish for any good. “It’s holding up just fine, sugar. But I recall I said I’d give you a good tip for having it done in time for my trip, and you sure did. Now I didn’t have it on me to pay you for it then, and it seems mighty uncouth to just hand over a wad of cash, so I brought this.” Moving her hand from behind her back, she revealed a dark amber bottle. When Blackwall did not immediately move to grab it, she stepped into the garage and handed it over herself. Blackwall tried not to be mesmerized by the sway of her hips and the way it made her dress flounce as she walked into his world.
“Whisky?” He examined the bottle.
“Seemed like a good bet, but if I’m wrong you just say so and I’ll find you something else.”
“This must have cost a fortune!” he exclaimed when he had read the label. “Miss Cadash, I can’t accept this. This is worth more than the work I did altogether, let alone for a tip!” He tried to hand it back to her.
“Are you turning down my gift?” she asked, quirking a brow as she looked up at him. “That seems awfully rude, doesn’t it? And me, just trying to say thank you for a job I sore needed?” She’d caught him. Again.
“I…this really is not necessary, my lady.”
“Neither is you addressing me so, but I’m not complaining,” she said, a satisfied smirk on her face and a saucy bounce in her step as she helped herself to a seat on his bench. “Now, I’ve been thinking, since you did so well with my repairs, I might be in the neighborhood for new rims.”
“New rims?” Blackwall was still trying to wrap his mind around the top-shelf whisky she’d just put into his hands, and trying to puzzle out that smile of hers. He ought to tell her not to sit there—she might get oil or something else on her nice white dress, but he didn’t have time before she was talking again. “I didn’t see anything wrong with the ones you have now, miss.”
“Oh, there’s nothing wrong with them, but don’t you think it would look nice with some shiny new rims? I’ve seen some in the store down by the pancake house, and they look mighty fine.”
“From Raleigh’s?” Blackwall asked. “Those will cost you a pretty penny, my lady. I’m sure I could find something more economic, if you like.” She’d be paying him for the work regardless of which brand she picked—though what interest she had in slapping unnecessary new rims on her car, he couldn’t possibly say.
“But the ones from Raleigh’s are so nice,” Miss Cadash insisted, smiling like a girl well used to getting her own way. She must have been an only child, Blackwall thought. “And I have no husband or wife to tell me not to do it.” She winked, as if he needed the reminder she was unaffiliated. She had mentioned it several times. Blackwall did not make a habit of thinking about it.
“You’ve got me.” Oh, that was too bold by half, he shouldn’t have—
“Do I?” Miss Cadash’s eyes gleamed like a cat’s and she rose up off the bench. “Are you telling me what I should do, Blackwall?” Around the acrid tang of the various liquids and materials he used in his work, he caught the traces of Miss Cadash’s perfume. Something floral—he couldn’t have said what, but there were a few of hers that were becoming familiar, and they were troublingly pleasant.
“Only offering a bit of friendly advice, my lady.” He backed off at once, lowering his eyes, which had the unfortunate effect of giving him an excellent view of her chest, hugged nicely by her dress. “I wouldn’t want you to be cheated.”
“You’re so thoughtful,” Miss Cadash sighed with an unduly tender smile. “I think I’ll go with the ones from Raleigh’s though. Perhaps you’d come with me—help me pick them out?”
There was a reason Blackwall kept to himself. Criminal records didn’t expunge themselves, and the more people who knew him, the greater chance someone would discover his ruse. And getting involved romantically—that simply wasn’t an option. So he really needed to—
“If you insist, I suppose I can’t say no,” he said. “In the interest of protecting your finances, of course.”
“In the interest of protecting my finances, of course,” Miss Cadash echoed, smirking at him like they shared a wonderful private joke. “How’s business? Looks like you’re keeping busy.”
“I’ve had a few more customers than usual this week,” he said, failing to resist the urge to keep looking down at the bottle in his hands. “I’m sure it’ll pass.”
“Mm, I did send a few over your way,” Miss Cadash said, with a smile that made Blackwall immediately question his ability to keep standing under his own power. “Hope they’re not giving you any trouble.”
“You sent me customers?” he asked.
“Of course. You’ve done such fine work for me, I’ve been telling anyone I know to forget about their usual spot,” she said. “You know how hard it is to find an honest mechanic in this city? This is the only place I don’t feel like I’m being robbed! I’ve been telling everyone in the family they should come here.”
“I—that’s—very generous of you, Miss Cadash.” Taken aback was an understatement. Blackwall couldn’t remember the last time someone had reached a hand out to him, not since—. “I appreciate it.”
“And we appreciate your expertise,” she replied. The twinkle in her eyes told him she could see how surprised he was, and knew what the additional business meant. There wasn’t much hiding that he was managing to scrape by, but not much more—not that he’d asked for anything more. He had a roof over his head and food on the table, and couldn’t complain—there were others without even that much, and in other circumstances, his lot would have been far worse.
“So, for our trip to Raleigh’s, how does Thursday sound? I’ll come get you.” She turned on her heel without waiting for an answer. “Enjoy the whisky, sugar. I’ll see you later.” She said it like a promise, and Blackwall saw his only chance to dodge out of this.
“I don’t know if I’ll have time Thursday,” he said, turning to face her again as she started out of the garage.
“See you Thursday,” she said, looking back at him with that smile as she sashayed out. Limpid gray eyes were starting to haunt his dreams, and worse, his daydreams. Working alone in the garage gave him a lot of time to think—which used to be a blessing. With Miss Cadash stalking his thoughts like a panther on the prowl, it suddenly seemed less so.
Varric had cackled when he mentioned that Miss Cadash had remarked on the beard the first time he met her.
“Boy, she just got right to it, didn’t she?” he’d said. Sensing something had gone over his head, Blackwall gave Varric a puzzled look. “That’s the dwarven equivalent of ‘hey nice ass’,” Varric clarified.
“Oh.” A frown, a furrow, then: “It is not, you’re pulling my leg.”
“Oh, rest assured, it is,” Varric said with a delightfully scandalized grin. “That girl sized you up for a piece of meat the first time she saw you!” Blackwall had insisted Varric was wrong, the idea was preposterous. Varric had wanted to know if the mystery woman would be back. Blackwall had said it was possible—she had wanted to bring her car in, but she might end up taking it elsewhere.
And now he was here, holding a bottle of whisky surely worth more than a hundred sovereigns. He’d have to close up the shop while he was gone on Thursday, as he worked alone. Well, it wasn’t overflowing with business anyway. He’d make up the work later.
***
“So what about that girl?” Varric asked, hopping up on Blackwall’s bench while Blackwall wiped down the die grinder to return it to Varric. “The one who was over here shopping for ass?” Thankfully, the beard hid much of Blackwall’s face, so his reaction to that was very muted.
“I still think you’re pulling the wool over my eyes about that,” he announced as Varric made himself at home rifling through Blackwall’s tools. Blackwall wasn’t sure if he and Varric were friends, but the dwarf had no problem strolling in any time he was passing by and Blackwall’s garage door was open, and Blackwall wasn’t opposed to the company. Varric had a good sense of humor, something Blackwall was always in need of these days. “There’s no way she’d be interested.” Varric flashed a grin over at Blackwall, just for a heartbeat.
“But you want her to be,” he said. “Woah, woah, woah, what’s this?” How, of all Blackwall’s possessions, had Varric managed so quickly to ferret out the one incriminating thing? He was holding the brand-new ratchet wrench that Miss Cadash had gifted him a few weeks back, after the trip to Raleigh’s, which should have been a quick affair, but ended up consuming half the day. He could barely remember the flimsy excuse she had given for presenting it. “What did you say this girl’s name was?”
“Iona,” Blackwall replied at once, suppressing a sigh. “Iona Cadash.”
“Cadash?” Varric was giving him a look like he had missed something in this exchange. Blackwall just blinked.
“Yes, I believe that’s what she said.”
“You know what this is?” Varric held the ratchet wrench up and pointed to the design on it. Even though Iona had been tight-lipped about where she got it and how much it was—and Blackwall was not quite crass enough to ask—it was clearly a fine tool—and customized too.
“A rather detailed heraldry symbol?” Blackwall had been impressed with the craftsmanship of it, but from Varric’s reaction, he guessed he was missing some other dwarven custom.
“This is the crest of House Cadash,” Varric said. “On a gift she gave to you. And she’s included the name of your little shop here. This is as good as announcing she’s courting you. With intent to wed.” Varric’s die grinder nearly hit the floor, but Blackwall managed to catch it before it hit the cement.
“I’m sorry—what? Courting?”
“I told you she was serious.” Varric clicked his tongue. “This? If her family knows about this…”
“What does her family have to do with it?” Blackwall asked, twisting the die grinder nervously between his hands. He hadn’t forgotten Varric’s reaction to Iona’s name.
“Right, right, the fun part—do you actually know anything about House Cadash? You’ve been in Kassel for what…two years? You should know something!”
“I don’t get out much,” Blackwall said, glancing towards the door. Nor did he spend a great deal of time in dwarven social circles. Apparently, these things were to his detriment, as Varric was about to enlighten him.
“No kidding?” Varric chuckled and shook his head. “The Cadash family runs just about the entire black market lyrium trade in Ferelden. This girl of yours is Carta to the core. And if her family finds out she’s making eyes at some human…well, I hope you enjoy commitment.”
“Carta? No, that can’t be. She’s…there’s no way. How do you know this?” Blackwall thought back to the top-shelf whisky and the personalized ratchet wrench set sitting casually on his bench—gifts Miss Cadash had handed over without batting an eye. He thought of the Raleigh rims and her mention of a family business she was involved in.
“Everybody knows this, Hero,” Varric said, slapping down the nickname he’d started using on Blackwall ever since deciding the man had a boyish fixation on justice and noble heroes. “The name Cadash is practically synonymous with Carta. You know what they did to the last guy who got involved with a Cadash girl and then left her cold? Busted his kneecaps, with a baseball bat.”
“And you’re saying that that…thing is…”
“The lady’s favor, yes,” Varric said with a cackle. “She’s got her sights on you, Hero. Nobody in Kassel fucks with Cadash kids unless they’re stupid. Or new in town. Or possibly Carta themselves.” Blackwall’s hands were frozen on the die grinder.
“I have to stop this,” he said. “This was a bad idea from the start.”
“And you thought whatever you did was serious.” Varric’s grin stretched ear-to-ear, which was really giving Blackwall whiplash about the attitude he ought to be taking about this. “Turns out your bird’s a bigger thug than you!”
“Dammit, Varric, this is serious,” Blackwall said, setting the die grinder down. “I have to put a stop to it. I should’ve done that months ago.”
“’Should have’ and ‘did’ are wildly different things,” Varric said. “And isn’t it that the unhealthier a relationship is, the more attached to it you are?”
“I’m not looking to get my kneecaps smashed,” Blackwall said dryly. “And it would never work with Miss Cadash anyway.”
“Because of what happened in Orlais.”
“Because of what happened in Orlais.” Blackwall had never told Varric about why he left, but the dwarf was too clever for his own safety and with the aid of a few stops to the bar, had been able to work out that something drove Blackwall out of his home country and infer that he was on the run for it. It was more than anyone else had figured out since it all happened. There was almost a relief in being able to be partway honest with Varric, as much as there was anxiety that someday he’d figure it all out.
“I’d ask how you know she’s not telling herself the same thing, but I think we can assume she doesn’t have any similar quandaries,” Varric said, picking up the ratchet wrench and gesturing with it before dropping it back on the bench.
“I’ll give it back,” Blackwall said. “Tell her I can’t accept.”
“You better have a good reason why not,” Varric said.
“She can’t kidnap me, Varric.”
“No, but you don’t want to give the Carta any reason to be on your back. It’s best to cut it off before you’ve given her enough reason to kidnap you.” Blackwall couldn’t argue with that—nest time he was able to see Miss Cadash, he’d have to make it clear he was not available for courtship of any kind.
***
“So how’d it go with Princess Cadash? Looks like you’ve still got all your limbs,” Varric observed as he ambled through the tiny front room into the garage portion of the shop. Blackwall had the front room with the cash register as a matter of formality, but anyone who’d been around more than once knew it was quicker to just go into the garage and find him there. “Still got everything…important?” Blackwall did not look up from the scratch he was buffing out of the rear bumper he was working over. He grabbed the towel slung over one shoulder and rubbed at the body of the car, wiping away excess wax unnecessarily. He wished Varric had waited a few more days before coming by—he was still recovering. “That’s not a reassuring silence, Hero. You did see her, didn’t you?”
“I saw her.” Blackwall bent over double, nearly pressing his face against the bumper as he examined his work so far. It was a fine car, its bumpers a clean and shiny silver against the sky blue of the body, and the scratch had barely been noticeable from the start—it took several moments for him to understand what the customer was even talking about when he complained about it.
“And?”
“And…” Vigorously, he went on polishing.
“You didn’t end it, did you?” Varric dumped his messenger bag on the floor, avoiding the worse of the oil spots, and folded his arms, regarding Blackwall like he might be contaminated with essence of “death wish”. Maybe he was. Certainly self-preservation was moving down his list of priorities.
“…no.”
“Well what the hell happened?” It was possible to tell the story without ever having to actually look at Varric, and Blackwall fully intended to carry it out that way.
“I went over to the house—”
“You went to her house? Was she alone? You didn’t talk with others of them, did you?” Varric was practically licking his lips through his concern; Blackwall could almost see the novel writing itself in Varric’s mind.
“I didn’t want to wait for her to come back here!” Blackwall defended himself. “It seemed best to just get it over with.”
“Except you didn’t. So what did you do?”
“She offered to give me a ride into town,” Blackwall recalled. “I think I caught her heading out. I thought maybe the car would be a good place to do it. Can’t lose your temper very well in a car.” He wasn’t sure if Miss Cadash was the type to lose her temper, but given the delicacy of the situation, it had seemed best to make every effort to keep things calm. Despite the fact that he must have distracted her from whatever errand she was meant to be running, Iona had been in a fine mood, apparently thrilled that he’d stopped by. At least, that was how he judged her immediate willingness to give him a ride, and the amiable tone of her conversation.
“And?”
“She took us out to some field,” he said. “Nowhere near town, of course. Wanted to sit and talk a while. I figured that was as good a time as any to do it. She wanted to sit out on the front of the car, in the fresh air. I thought maybe that was best. After I told her, I’d probably be walking home, but that’s better than sitting through that car ride.” If she decided to scream at him, they were away from potential onlookers and if she decided to murder him, there were plenty of places to hide a body.
“So what did you say?”
“Well, it…didn’t really come up.”
“You’re shitting me. It didn’t come up? That’s the whole reason you went over there!”
“It just…didn’t.” The muscles in his forearm flexed with the effort he was putting into buffing out the small scratch; he was going to wear away the bumper if he wasn’t careful.
“So let’s see…she got you in her car, took you out someplace private, and wanted to hang around…I’m guessing she got handsy.” The bumper groaned and the spanner that Blackwall had set on top of the hood jumped onto the floor, making him bite back a curse. “I don’t believe this. You were supposed to break up with her for the safety of your limbs and you just made out with her.”
“I—she—there was a lot happening!” Blackwall knew he had no excuse. Varric’s disbelief was warranted: Iona only had to flutter those ginger lashes at him to quiet him down and one kiss was all it took to make him forget why he’d come at all. It was the first time she had ever kissed him, and he wished she would never stop—it was Iona who had announced it was time for them to go, and driven him back to his garage, dazed and befuddled and still in possession of the wrench. Worse, in possession of the memory of Iona’s legs tucked beside her on the hood of her little car, dappled sunlight falling through the trees to add to her freckled face and arms, and the way her clear gray eyes blinked slowly at him as she leaned in for a kiss. To say nothing of that itself—the memory of her plush lips against his, warm and waxy from her lipstick, and that floral smell wreathing around him like a spell.
“You’ve got to give me more details than that,” Varric insisted. “She must have been very convincing.”
“You know, she made some very good points,” Blackwall said.
“Oh? Like what?”
“Far be it from me to kiss and tell,” Blackwall said.
“Come on, you’re dancing with a Carta girl and you’re not going to give me the juicy details?” Varric whined. “This is the stuff novels are made of!”
Blackwall had forgotten to even remind himself he was there to banish her from his life, or that she was probably dangerous, and certainly tied up in some very unsavory happenings. How could he remember such things, when he was listening to her carefree laughter, or hearing her describe with great animation a party she had gone to recently, or watching her expressions duly support him as he recounted stories of particularly difficult customers? Varric might make her sound like a threat, but when he was with her, she seemed just like any other woman, just living her life. And for a little while, she made him feel like just any other man.
“She’s quite clever, you know,” he remarked.
“She’s certainly got you hoodwinked,” Varric retorted. “Anyway, if you’re dumb in the Carta you just end up as muscle to carry out threats. Princess doesn’t seem like that type.”
“No, I expect she’s not.”
“Expect? Did you even talk to her about being Carta?” Varric asked. Blackwall again averted his eyes, rubbing intently at the bumper. “Boy, you really meant it didn’t come up at all.”
“It didn’t seem like the kind of thing to just drop into a conversation.” Half-assing the discussion on her mob-related connections did not seem like a good way to keep his fingers whole.
“You mean it didn’t make for good sweet talk while you were necking,” Varric corrected.
“That’s coincidental,” Blackwall objected half-heartedly. There was no way he was interrupting Iona’s praise of his mechanical skill or her hands on his chest to bring up that hey, sorry to bother, but I was just wondering, I heard it was possible you may be slightly affiliated with the Carta—is that true? Just wondering!
Varric was laughing even as he shook his head.
“You are so screwed,” he said. Blackwall finally abandoned the bumper and raked both hands back through his hair.
“Fuck, I really am.”