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The first words Tarquin ever says to Ashur are these: “What the fuck?”
This is because a masked man has dropped from a rooftop directly onto the sandy, badly-paved Minrathous street Tarquin is trying to walk down while minding his own damn business.
“Come with me,” the masked man says, almost politely for someone who is clearly out of their fucking mind, and gestures towards an alley.
“The fuck I will!” Tarquin says, stepping back.
The masked man hesitates.
“I… only wanted to talk. About what you did for Harinius’ slaves.”
“Fucking shank me in an alleyway is more like!” Tarquin says, beginning to turn away.
“You helped us,” the man says before Tarquin can make his escape, sounding a little desperate now, “I wanted to… thank you. And see if you would help us more in the future.”
This brings Tarquin to a pause, because he knows a little about that slave revolt, and what triggered it, and why the templars didn’t intervene when matters drew to a head. He had his part to play in it, after all.
“Ah shit,” Tarquin says as he finally understands. “You’re the one they call the Viper.”
And more than that, he knows, but he’s not ready to show all his cards just yet.
“I am,” the man says, sounding pleased. “Will you come with me? We can talk more in a secure location.”
This is, Tarquin reflects, a bad idea. He’s going to do it anyway.
“Fuck. Alright,” he says, and follows as the Viper leads him away from busy areas.
They twist through streets that seem as familiar to the Viper as they are to Tarquin, though he doesn’t know how the Viper could have come by that familiarity. Finally they climb a ladder, scale a short, heavily carved wall, and stand on a roof that looks over the harbor.
“You helped us,” the Viper says. “Why?”
“It was the right thing to do, wasn’t it?” Tarquin says, and it comes out a little more acerbically than he intends. “It’s wrong, owning people. They’re no worse than you or I—and no better, either.”
He looks sharply at the Viper to see if he takes his meaning, but he’s hard to read behind the mask.
“I agree,” the Viper says, and Tarquin decides he hasn’t caught the hint. “That’s why I do what I do. You did good work, sabotaging the schedules and the paperwork on where people lived so the templars couldn’t be mustered to put down the revolt. You helped give many people their freedom that day.”
“Sure,” Tarquin grunts, “Got two weeks unpaid leave for it, too.”
“I see,” the Viper says. “Was it worth it?”
“Oh, sure. So, you want to recruit me to… what? Sabotage schedules and pass along the word when the templars are coming?”
“If that’s what you want,” the Viper says neutrally.
“They’ll fire me if I pull that stunt again,” Tarquin says, feeling a little subdued. “Don’t know what I’d do for a living then.”
“There are other options, but you’re better positioned to help as a templar.”
“Direct, aren’t you?” Tarquin asks, a little amused despite himself. Who would have guessed?
“I try to be,” the Viper says quietly.
Tarquin leans against the wall and studies the man in front of him. His clothes are plain but extremely well made, rich fabric and tiny neat stitches and fine tailoring. His armor is well-maintained and shines slightly in the dim Minrathous sunlight. He’s watching Tarquin with eyes shadowed by an expensive-looking hat, custom work if Tarquin is any judge of these things, and he ought to be; his mother did millinery to help make ends meet.
“I’d like to do something that means something,” Tarquin says at last. “If you’ll have me, I’ll do whatever needs doing. But I’d better lay all my cards on the table first.”
“Hm?”
“You seem to already know that I work in the archives most of the time. Caused too much trouble refusing to look the other way, got sent down. Imagine my surprise when I’m processing bullshit paperwork for the Divine’s tours and reading the evening paper on my way home, and I notice that small and medium scale slave revolts happen wherever the Divine happens to be. I reckon it’s someone in his entourage, and I do some digging, and it’s been happening ever since Divine Urian starting bringing his nephew, a Grand Cleric at the time, along with him.”
“Hm,” the Viper says again, but this time he sounds interested.
“So I think, that can’t be right, but then Urian goes and tops off and Aequitas steps up after his family buys him the seat, and he turns around and supports the Lucerni, who want to bring an end to slavery. And I get to thinking… well, it could be, couldn’t it?”
He meets the Viper’s eyes over the mask. The Viper’s hand is hovering and the air tingles a little with magic about to be cast.
“I’m not blackmailing you,” Tarquin clarifies, raising his arms a little in a show of innocence. “I just thought you ought to know that I know, and I haven’t done anything with that information, so…”
Slowly, the feel of building magic dissipates as the Divine—the Viper—studies him.
“We could really use a man like you,” the Viper says.
“That’s a lot of trust to give. Lot of trust to ask, too,” Tarquin says.
“Think it over first,” the Viper counters. “If you’re still interested, meet me at the Cobbled Swan for lunch in three days. I’ll introduce you to the others.”
With that, he slips over the side of the fucking building and disappears like some sort of idiot bird. Being raised versed in Chantry showmanship… Tarquin supposes he shouldn’t be surprised that the man has a penchant for the dramatic.
He sighs and makes his way much more sensibly back down the way they came up, and resumes his walk home. If he’s lucky, the fish stand a block away won’t be sold out and he can have a real dinner instead of the stale bread and cheap cheese he has in his apartment.