Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Grande Markets, Seventh Hour

The Grande Markets were open at all hours. Pleasant, organized, and a practical sort of bare-boned in the day, the nighttime was when they truly came alive. For Lorenzo Cantorini, simple stakeout work at the markets was much preferable to tailing drunken Antaam. For one, it was getting harder to resist sinking a knife into that soft, vulnerable pit at the back of their skulls. It would be so easy. For two, everybody knew what happened to Crows who couldn’t follow orders. The precise and merciless spilling of Antaam blood took a grim edge when the alternative was total occupation. Lorenzo’s pride was in good judgment, not only cold lethality.

The markets were also nicer than the smelly pits frequented by Antaam. Lorenzo leaned against a thick wooden support beam and took brief stock of the scene, the stalls, the people. Olivia, the magician, entertained a handful of the market’s patrons. The crystal merchant arranged neat lines of fire amber and smoky quartz. Chatter carried over the air. The occupation seemed so far from here. For the Crows, normalcy would be forever beyond their reach. He could at least shield the citizens of Antiva from the worst of if. For as long as he was able, the Grande Markets would be just that; a bastion of normalcy amidst the chaos befalling Treviso. That would have to suffice. Funny, how the Crows took form as a shadow of avenging justice over belabored Anvita, and it took yet another crisis to remind them of their roots. Teia would say it was inevitable.

A bastion of normalcy that did not have Venatori crawling from the woodwork like cockroaches. At the far edge of the markets, from a building Lorenzo recognized as a butcher’s shop, the door swung open. A gloved hand trailed along the inside edge, and then disappeared inside. The market patrons were distracted by their shopping, by conversation, by the scattered amusements. Nobody seemed to notice.

Good. No point in causing a panic. Lorenzo crossed the courtyard at a purposeful— though not hurried, to avoid attracting attention himself— clip, and closed the light wooden door behind him. No lock clicked.

Not a trap.

Wet, pained rasping emerged from behind the butcher’s counter. Puddles of blood led from the door to the counter, fresh, wet, a tacky sheen in the sparse candlelight.

“I know you’re there.” Lorenzo approached. He unsheathed his shortsword, hefting the well-balanced, deadly weight in his palm. “Venatori aren’t Antiva’s principle concern right now, but if you think blood magic in a Crow city is going to fly?” He paused; a typical Venatori would have some cultish nonsense to say by now. He wasn’t mistaken that the glove and sleeve pushing the door open belonged to the zealot’s garb, he was sure. And the blood…

An awful lot to shed when he knew what could be accomplished from a few drops.

“Crow.”

That was not the voice of a zealot. Lorenzo was familiar enough with the voice of a dying man. He circled the butcher’s counter, pushing the wooden flap open and staring down at his target. A butcher’s knife– flat-backed with a sharp taper, curved from the hilt at the bottom– sat half-buried in his thigh. Blood coated the black and red of his middle, of his sleeves. The fabric hood and veil concealed his face, but Lorenzo was familiar enough also with fear. His body screamed as much. The butcher’s knife was turned inwards. This was no attack. The Venatori had done this to himself.

“Speak, Venatori.”

“I have…” he hissed. He reached for the butcher’s knife— Lorenzo nearly jabbed him in the hand, in case he was planning on throwing it— and twisted the blade in his thigh. A bitten-down cry blew the center of his veil. “To tell you. I can tell you. You need to—“

Blood seeped from his middle to the floor. Whatever he had to say, he ought to say it fast. Lorenzo calculated how much time he had left going by just how quickly he appeared to be bleeding out, and found the number not encouraging.

“Speak,” he prompted again, when the Venatori lapsed into desperate, hissing breaths.

“My mind. Please. Please, let me help.”

“You’re going to bleed out.” It was the obvious thing to say. Lorenzo sheathed his blade. If more cultists were going to jump out at him, they would have done so already. If the Venatori on the floor intended to attack him, his only weapon was embedded in his own flesh. This was unlike any trap Lorenzo had ever seen from the zealots, and so; unlikely to be one. He bent his knee to close the distance between himself and the slumped Venatori. The red crystal on the forehead of his veil glimmered in the candlelight, then darkened under Lorenzo’s shadow.

Teia would know what to do. Teia was always better at getting people to talk. She was smart, and charming, and above all she could screw into the hardest heart and crack it open and raw. Lorenzo could talk perfectly fine to people who already liked him.

The Venatori whimpered. His hand raised from the sleek walnut grip, fluttering aimlessly at his side.

The Diamond wasn’t far. Lorenzo pried open a cabinet built into the counter and threw a handful of rags on the floor. The butcher wouldn’t mind. This wasn’t the first time Crows used his shop as a makeshift surgery, and wouldn’t be the last, and if he was home he was safe upstairs with no idea that this was happening… or at least, that’s what he would say.

It took a certain type to survive living in close proximity to the Crows.

The Venatori slumped back against the cabinets. Lorenzo folded the rags in halves, and then in quarters, and skimmed the rumpled fabric of the Venatori’s tunic for holes. He found several; a torn furrow in the fabric of his left arm. Those were light cuts, overlapping, ten or fifteen even slices. Some were scabbing. The deepest– the freshest– still bled. Lorenzo packed the rags under his sleeve and seized the Venatori’s hand by the wrist, guiding it to his arm.

“Hold.”

The knife was an issue. He seized the handle– the Venatori breathed in, harsh, alarmed, steeling himself– and drew it out as smoothly as he could manage. He was mangled, of course. Three overlapping wounds studded the top of his thigh. Chunks of twisted flesh clung to the edges, and oozing blood coated the entire outside of the wound and most of his leg. It looked like some toddler’s halting attempt to carve his own dinner.

Lorenzo had seen worse, but not on someone still living. The Venatori took the pain with admirable control; his head thunked against the wooden siding. A low, agonized groan rattled in his throat. Lorenzo layered the remaining rags on his thigh, and then– with some regret– unbuckled the holster around his thigh that carried his flechettes. It would hold the rags there until a proper medic could look at him. Around his leg it went; buckled tight, pressure and an improvised tourniquet, and the Venatori whined in aimless protest but held cooperatively still.

“Keep those rags on your arm,” he ordered– waited for a nod– and then seized the Venatori around the middle, hoisting him onto his shoulder, and stood.

He’d looked more substantial with all the fabric. Lorenzo was strong, and more used to hauling dead weight than a live catch, but the Venatori wasn’t very heavy at all. The typical zipline from the neighboring roof was still out of the question; the worker’s entrance it was.

Lorenzo exited into the back alley. From there, it was a quick detour across an artfully haphazard arrangement of wooden planks, between skillfully trimmed hedges, and through a secretly hinged wrought-iron fence. The Venatori was suspiciously silent, and worryingly still, but the labored press of his middle against Lorenzo’s shoulder proved that he was still alive.

Lorenzo pushed the employee’s door open with one hand. A waitress– the Crow pin on her apron strap glinted in the lanternlight– gestured him past a black linen curtain and to the twisting stone staircase that led to the staff levels of the casino. At this time of night, the festivities were in full swing. The distant roar of cheering and applause followed him up the stairs as a performer finished their set. The Venatori moaned, low, as each step Lorenzo took jostled him.

Unlabeled doors– deep, rich mahogany, no expenses spared even in the secret guts of the casino– studded the hallway. Lorenzo knew exactly what laid behind each one. He passed the bunkroom, the recreation room, the little former-storage room that everybody knew Viago de Riva slept in but pretended otherwise, and stepped into the infirmary. The medic on duty put down his book with a well-practiced air of bored disinterest.

“Name?”

“Lorenzo Cantorini.”

He sloughed the Venatori down in a free cot. Two Crows poked their heads up to watch the proceedings, twisting in their cots and exchanging meaningful glances that Lorenzo didn’t care to take part in, but stayed mercifully quiet.

“And name?”

The medic pointed the end of his fountain pen at the Venatori.

“I don’t know.”

The medic grunted. He turned his attention to the logbook.

“Lorenzo… Cantorini… and… agent.”

Agent would do. He unbuckled the holster from the Venatori’s thigh and drew away the rags, already soaked through. The Venatori still had a death grip on his arm, so Lorenzo decided wisely to leave that to Eusebio. Was his name Eusebio? The Diamond’s medic was one of de Riva’s. Lorenzo took pride in rarely making his acquaintance.

“Stabilize him, please. Then I need to move him.”

He stepped away from the cot to allow the medic to move in. He did not need to be present for this. Least of all because the medic would be seeing his roughshod handiwork– he could defend himself, well, it worked, if there weren’t the two fledglings there too. He ducked into the hall instead and made his way to the storage room at the very end. It wasn’t a large room. At one point, it had possibly held old card tables. Over time it was emptied out, and then filled by cobwebs, emptied out again, populated primarily with mice and lovers, and as the Antaam moved in…

There was a cage now, and that was what Lorenzo was looking for. The unpleasant, octagonal cages had the stamp of Tevinter’s metalworking guild on the bottom; aside from that, batch numbers, factory-of-make, the innocent label of animal cage - medium. For birds, or perhaps a medium-sized dog.

“Don’t make me laugh,” Lorenzo muttered to himself. It would suit his needs. He dragged it from the back wall to the vague center of the room, plucking the key from the lock and hanging it on a nail hammered inelegantly into the threshold. He pushed a few boxes to the sides of the room, checked for any weapons that could realistically be within reach, and killed a few more minutes just to make sure his return trip to the infirmary was as brief as possible.

The Venatori was still when he returned. Bandaged, though; a good sign. The medic was back at his desk, and reading again. Also a good sign.

“May I take him now?”

The medic waved, dismissive. “I wouldn’t be too rough if you want him to stay alive, but he should be good for a little throwing around.”

“Well.” He glanced down at the unconscious cultist. The medic hadn’t even taken the veil and hood off. Respecting Lorenzo’s territory, most like. “I’ll be sure to only throw him around a little.”

The fledglings tittered in delight. Lorenzo certainly didn’t miss being that easy to please, but there was a charming innocence to it, he supposed. He hauled the Venatori up over both shoulders and returned to the storage room with him, where he set him down in the cage. The Venatori was coming to, but it was a slow thing. He wasn’t fighting.

Lorenzo didn’t expect him to. He wasn’t fighting yet. By the time he tried, he would– with all hope– no longer be Lorenzo’s problem.

“I suppose I ought to tell Teia and Viago now,” he muttered to himself, and closed the door behind him.

Torn Journal Page

Found hidden under a loose brick by the Chantry dockhouse. Written in a mixture of Trade and Tevene. The ink is cheap; Tevinter-made, watered down for longevity’s sake. Evidence that the pen has a tendency to skip. The page is torn, as if in a hurry. Water damage blurs the ink at the edges.

The new shipments arrived half-past the Eighth hour. Traian and I unloaded. Tucked some away, just in case.

I am going on vacation soon. Volatus (N: “Volatus” is not a city in Tevinter, nor anywhere else in Thedas. Coded language?) is mild at this time of year. It’s supposed to storm soon and I’d rather be somewhere else.

Vicent has tried to convince me to stay. I know he’s putting things (N: The script here is illegible. Water damage.) I have to speak to him again tomorrow. I can’t do it again. I have such a headache. I can’t focus on reading. I need to keep writing or I’ll forget. I can’t forget to hide (N: The writing ends.)

Medic’s Report

Name: Unk. Venatori Agent (V)

Presented by Crow Lorenzo Cantorini (L). V. bleeding for some time before being brought in.

Injuries: Refer to diagram below. Summary beneath.

Left Arm: Seven gouges on dorsal side. Three ventral. Dorsal: indicate self-inflicted. Ventral: too clean. Scabbed. L. delivered with rags to control bleeding. Disinfected and bandaged. Not dangerous.

Midsection: V. indicated discomfort when touched. No external wounds found past his clothes. I’m not examining him.

Left Leg: Inexpert stabbings. Self-inflicted. Deep. L. controlled bleeding with acceptable competence. Disconnected flesh removed. Internal wound cleaned. Disinfected. Soiled fabric replaced, proper bindings applied. V. lost consciousness at some point during procedure. Recommend prompt bandage changes at least every 2 hours, 4 hours at maximum, to avoid infection.

Despite pain and disorientation, V. was compliant. Disorientation seemed to be from more than pain– could not say name, hometown, year. Recommend investigation of his blood before any substances in his system clear. Blood loss is severe but no longer lethal, per treatment. Wakefulness and coherence should improve with rest; if not, further suspect dissociatives?

In my opinion, V. is more trouble than worth. What information to be gleaned from a single defecting (?) Venatori could be acquired from methods that do not require a live captive. Nevertheless, I have long since given up advising you. He is all yours, Viago.

Chapter Text

Cantori Diamond Eaves

Treviso’s resistance to Antaam occupation was proceeding without excessive casualties. If Viago was damning the efforts of the other houses with faint praise, so be it; with whole sections of the city under martial law and more threatening to fall every day, displeasure was the least he was entitled to.

“Grande Markets, you say.”

Teia set a hand on her hip. One of her Crows stood beside her, bent slightly to speak in hushed tones. Viago only pretended not to be listening in.

“From Eusebio,” her Crow muttered, and passed along what could only be the medic’s report. Teia peeked at the inside, then closed it again, her fine brows pinching just a bit. Not enough to notice, to anyone but Viago.

“Go clean up the crime scene,” she directed, and tapped his chest with the folded paper. “And make sure it’s presentable before the shops open. What a mess.”

Her Crow bowed his head and took his leave.

“For you, Viago.”

Eusebio’s report was folded in half, a neat crease perfectly down the middle. Viago took it between pinched fingers and examined the blank outside as if that would make it disappear. Most of the time, medic’s reports were not so carefully treated; and if some fledgling was foolish enough to twist their ankle jumping from a zipline prematurely, then some public shaming would do them good and they would be more cautious the next time. Viago did not want to open this.

“Your Crow, your problem.”

“Ah-ah.” Teia crossed her arms, tilting her head to the side as if that would make Viago back down. Damn it, it did. “Your medic, your problem. I’ll come along for moral support, but we all know this is your area of expertise.”

She headed to the stairs, Viago close behind. Teia always gave the impression that she’d rather be out wrestling a lion, flying from rooftop to rooftop, indulging in the kind of street-level work that a Talon ought to be above of. Contrary to Viago’s own inclinations, that made him admire her more, and not less. This brief distraction must be the most entertainment she’s had all week.

“I haven’t even read the report.”

“Then read it on the way. Honestly, Viago. You can do two things at once.”

He unfolded the report.

“If Venatori truly are taking root in Treviso, that’s another concern for the Houses. It’s rare to find them so far from Antiva City.” Venatori had always been a distant issue– one that cropped up every now and then, but not enough to sway the status quo. As much as Viago disliked their presence in Treviso and Antiva as a whole, he’d not seen enough reason to organize any true resistance to their presence. They were usually able to pay well. That helped.

“Taking root? They’ve been here for a while. But something else must be happening. We’ve never had an opportunity like this.”

“If your intention is to get information from him, then I believe this is in fact your area of expertise,” Viago groused. Teia flounced ahead of him and did not even bother to respond.

“In you go,” she directed, cheerful, and unlocked the door to the storage room with several delicate clicks of the tumbler. A hairpin disappeared back into her curls. Viago put the key back into his pocket, and passed her as she held the door open. “I’ll be just out here. Don’t have too much fun without me.”

“What kind of fun do you think I’m having without you?”

Teia snickered. The door hit him in the back, gently, as she closed him into the room. “Tell the Venatori he has my sympathies.”

The door clicked shut. Viago turned his attention properly to the huddled form set opposite to him, fatigued and despondent in the appropriated slaver’s cage. A single dim lantern hung from the wall closest to the door, casting the rest of the room in moody shadow.

And the Venatori…

Viago was curious. Of course he was. For as wary as he had no choice but to be, Teia was right. Any previous dealings with Venatori had been in the distant, removed way Crows treated their clients. It was a glimpse into the chaotic underbelly of an organization that was otherwise in lockstep. Viago assumed that most professional disagreements were resolved internally. The rank-and-file– the magister’s sons, the frustrated nationalists, petty idiots looking for a place to belong– were either too easily manipulated or too rabidly focused on their other enemies to mind much what corruption gnawed away inside their ranks.

So why had this one?

“The Seventh Talon asked me to extend her sympathies.”

He’d expect any captive, let alone a Venatori, to flinch. He was conscious– he was squeezing the tattered fabric of his sleeve. The Venatori made as if to draw his knees up. The tight bandages and sudden pain of movement must have convinced him otherwise. Viago tapped the end of his cane against the side of the cage.

“But it is not yet your time. Whether that is fortunate, or not, is entirely up to you.”

The Venatori leaned to the opposite side of the cage. That was it. He was reacting, but too slowly. Too uncoordinated, like his limbs were not quite yet his own. If it were simple blood loss, Viago would not expect him to be so compliant.

“Are you going to speak?”

The hooded form tilted its face up at him. The small red gem set above his forehead reflected back the dim light from the lantern; he made a soft, wounded noise. Viago idly noted already a small, spreading red blotch on his thigh, and how he dug his nails into his wrist. While he waited for the Venatori to sleep off whatever it was in his system, or sit there and shiver it off, or stare at the door, or whatever it was he was going to do, Viago could find out what it actually was, and see why he was acting this way. If he’d been so eager to sell his compatriots out as Lorenzo reported, there was no reason for this.

Viago liked to believe that nothing happened for no reason.

“I’m going to collect some of your blood for testing.”

The Venatori continued to stare at him. Viago reluctantly accepted that him comprehending all of this was a slim chance to begin with.

He fished an empty glass vial from a hidden compartment on his cane, and then a fine, tapered throwing knife from his hip pouch. He knelt. The Venatori looked away, a fine effort at cowering when his body was barely his own in the first place.

“You will cooperate,” Viago instructed gravely. The Venatori did not struggle as he reached through the bars to take his uninjured hand by the wrist. It took only a moment to undo the thin leather straps holding his glove to his arm, and then to push his sleeve up to his elbow. Even his uninjured arm was merely free of fresh injuries. Tiny divots lined the inside of his arm, following the line of his vein all the way to the crook of his elbow. Fine pink scars framed his wrist. Less elegant pockmarks evidenced a nervous habit, one Viago had witnessed earlier. At least that wasn’t evidence of being used for blood magic.

“I can see you’re already accustomed to it,” he commented, dry. The Venatori did not struggle as the razor edge of Viago’s throwing knife followed another fine scar. Blood oozed to the surface of his skin without protest, though he had little to lose at this point, and Viago turned his wrist over, set the vial against his skin, and coaxed the vial half-full. He corked it; tucked it into his hidden breast pocket to keep it suitably warm until he could return to his study. The Venatori pulled his arm to his chest, pressing his thumb to the wound and slumping back against the bars. After only a brief moment of contemplation Viago retrieved a sedative; it was clear, colorless, with a slightly sweet taste and inoffensive odor. It was his favorite way to dispatch annoying coworkers and panicked targets and on this occasion might encourage the Venatori to sleep, and thus be able to hold a coherent conversation the next time Viago came to see him. All this time and they still didn’t have even a name.

He shook a few drops onto a handkerchief. Yes, the Venatori was definitely dosed with something. He’d be able to understand that Viago was about to drug him further, otherwise. He didn’t react until Viago had reached fully through the bars to press the handkerchief over his mouth and nose. Initial unconsciousness came quickly; after ten seconds of concerted effort, holding the fabric firmly against his face, and his head kept pinned to the back bars of the cage, the panicked hands on Viago’s wrists dropped to his lap.

There. The actual sedative effect lasted barely five minutes from application when breathed in, as opposed to when taken in food or drink, but it would be long enough for the Venatori to fall back to sleep when it wore off.

Probably.

Viago stood.

Too altered to be of use. Too afraid. One would mend with time. The other…

He knocked on the storage room door, reflexively seeking out Teia’s face as she opened it.

“So? How’d it go?”

“Let’s discuss this in the smoking room. I’d like to test his blood while I have the chance.” He tapped his cane against the floor. The door shut behind him. Against his breast, the vial of blood was still warm, but would not stay that way for long; he set off, Teia at his elbow.

Cantori Diamond Smoking Room

Neither he nor Teia smoked. It was rare for a Crow to smoke, in general; the lingering scent on clothes or hair would give away an unlucky assassin, an altered state of mind made completing contracts difficult, and Viago certainly impressed into the minds of his subordinates the importance of knowing just what they were putting into their bodies. Though a hookah sat on the center table and fragrant smoke clung to the velvet lounges and intricately carved chairs, the room had not been used for its intended purpose in months. The next time Teia needed to charm a merchant prince, then, Viago sourly assumed.

A fine oil landscape of Antiva’s coastline hung over a black velvet chaise. Teia’s index traced the curling armrest.

“A drink, Vi?”

Teia passed behind him. She was headed to the bar– footsteps light and expertly placed to avoid the squeaky planks. The smoking room was floored with walnut, fantastically varnished to a nearly mirrorlike finish, the kind that took to scuffs too easily and eagerly betrayed the footfalls of an inexpert assassin.

“I’ll pass.”

“You’re so tense.”

If it were anybody else, Viago would be insulted– on his behalf and hers. The exaggerated simpering would work only on the bluntest of targets or the most enamored of men.

“I suppose I am tense.”

He took the landscape by the frame and carefully twisted it off of its nail. Behind it was a fine, wood-lined cavity, and inside of that Viago kept one of his poison-testing kits. There were five compartments like this, scattered throughout the casino, and Viago had at least four installed in each estate that he acquired. One would never know when a titration kit would come in handy; and let nobody say that Viago de Riva was not prepared for every eventuality.

The soft thud of a glass bottle hit the bar. Viago collected his testing pan and eight small vials of drugs– some common, some exotic– and joined her. Teia busied herself with pouring a small stream of something from her hip flask into first one low tumbler, then another. Of course she wouldn’t drink anything she hadn’t poured herself– of course she didn’t trust even the sealed bottles. Viago cleared his throat, setting his testing pan down on the bar, and retrieved the Venatori’s blood from his interior vest pocket.

“So.”

She tapped her nails along the table. She took a drink– whatever it was, it was a deep red, glittering and rubylike. Viago uncorked the vial and dripped a small pool into each depression on the pan.

“What do you think?”

“About our visitor?”

He turned the test vials to double-check that he had brought the correct ones.

“Your forehead’s all wrinkly,” she teased, but he took the momentary pause in the conversation for what it was and lined up all the vials in testing order. There. Better.

Into the first depression he dripped concentrated blood lotus oil. On contact with blood, it should, theoretically, darken it on contact before spreading across the surface with a dull, hazy sheen. There was absolutely no separation on contact; the oil rose to the surface and remained as a stubborn bead.

So it was not blood lotus. But it was something.

Deathroot was the next likely suspect. There was nothing particularly unique about it, visually. Viago had used it in the past to non-lethally dispatch several rivals at a dinner party. This was before he would be the prime suspect, of course, and looking back he was sure at least some of those now-disgraced Crows would point fingers, but it wasn’t as if anybody listened to them anymore. A small sprinkle of a nullifying reagent turned the powder from white to blue, and as he sprinkled on just a tiny bit more, speckles of white sat plain and unchanged across the gritty paste.

So not deathroot.

Those were the easy ones.

“I know you’ve got more than eight bottles in there,” Teia mused. She rested the tip of her nail against his testing pan. Viago resisted the urge to shoo her hand away, and pinched the next tube between his thumb and forefinger instead. “What makes you think it’s any of these, instead of something else?”

“Behavior.”

Teia had a working knowledge of poisons, as did all Crows, and Viago was certain that she knew more than even he thought she did, but Viago also knew his own expertise.

“It points to a dissociative, maybe a hallucinogenic. If I were to suspect a sedative, he would have to have at least half the blood he’s lost back or else he wouldn’t have even been conscious. Obviously, if it were an influencer, he’d have been far more talkative than he was. So; I’m testing blood lotus, deathroot, which I have already ruled out. I’m testing one of my own mixtures right now– it covers a wide variety of similar homebrew drugs, some recreational. I’ve got a royal elfroot tincture to test next. Then I have concentrated lyrium suspended in stabilizing oils. This one…”

He held up the vial. It was a pale green, vivid and solid-looking even past the glass. “Saar-qamek, obtained from the Antaam, in a solution of my own design.”

“You think he ran afoul of the occupation.”

“It’s not hard to do,” Viago countered, and Teia snickered.

“So why come to us?” She rested her elbow on the table, setting her hand in her palm and glancing down at Viago’s work. No match yet, and the blood was getting cold. If it coagulated before he was done because he was distracted, he knew he would be very disappointed. Nevertheless…

Teia had a point.

“I’m still not sure on that. I have no reason to doubt your agent–”

“Oh, stow it, Vi. He’s one of mine. That’s enough reason for you to suspect him.”

He raised his free hand. She was right. “But it raises some questions as to what his intentions are.”

“I don’t think a Venatori would be dumb enough to surrender himself for no reason.”

The elfroot tincture turned up nothing. A long shot, he admitted internally, but it would be so easy if this was just some zealot on a bender. As he worked through the short list of drugs it could be reasonable for a Tevinter agent to obtain in Antiva, he was forced to accept with increasing certainty that a bender was not the case.

“I’ve accepted contracts on the Venatori,” Teia mused. “I’ve also accepted contracts from the Venatori. They pay well, and are usually trying to kill each other. I’ve got no problems taking money from one to rid the world of another.”

“I’m sure if he wanted a contract, he wouldn’t have turned up in this…” He dripped the lyrium solution into the cooling blood. Time was of the essence.

Nothing. Now for the least likely suspect, the one Viago had chosen only halfway because he’d not gotten to see it yet, outside of testing on his own blood, the saar-qamek suspended in carefully treated oils. The antidote powder stood ready beside the tin.

“State,” he finished, and finally tipped the pale green solution into the Venatori’s blood.

The reaction was immediate. In Viago’s test, the saar-qamek had bubbled, and then fizzed, and settled down into a chunky, coagulated mess. Application of the antidote quickly reversed the effects. The Venatori’s blood also bubbled, and also fizzed, but the expected coagulation did not come; when Viago tested the antidote, it hissed, and took nearly twice the amount as he expected until the mixture stopped refusing more.

“So…”

Teia glanced down at the tin.

“It’s the qamek,” Viago admitted, pinching his brows. Why couldn’t it have been something simple, like the blood lotus? And yet; this was a problem, the type he was well-suited to solving.

“Why not go to the other Venatori? If anyone would know how to combat that drug, it would be mages from Tevinter,” he muttered. Who in their right mind would see the Crows as the better option?

Teia hummed. She pushed the second tumbler over to him, now that he was no longer playing with his poisons, and he glanced into the squat glass before hazarding a drink.

Fruit punch. Of course it only looked like wine. Still, because it was Teia offering it, he just barely resisted the urge to spit it back into the glass and demand something better. Only she could enjoy getting fairly sucker-punched with sugar at the eighth hour.

“Unless it’s not the Antaam he ran afoul of. Qamek is used within the Qun to silence dissenters and break mages.”

Her fingers tapped along the table. “If he was trying to break away… I wouldn’t put it past other Venatori to have their methods of keeping the cult in line. Sure, most of them are zealots. But you’ve got to wonder what happens to the ones that aren’t.”

“It’s a sound theory.”

But. He always had at least one. “I’d expect Venatori to favor blood magic over the tools of their enemy, and he’s got the scars to corroborate it.”

“What if he were a mage, himself?”

He cleaned the various spent mixtures from the testing pan with a cloth, running it under the sink to disappear the evidence down the Diamond’s pipes. He folded the pan, packed the antidote powders away in their pouches or tins, and stowed the whole kit back behind the painting.

But if he were a mage himself…

Well, then magebane would be the obvious answer. But that would likewise inhibit the effect of blood magic; with his own inherent magical ability, he’d be able to fight outside control, and if his own ability to use magic was blocked, there could be complications… Viago noticed yet again a growing headache, and smoothed his forehead with conscious effort. If he were a mage, yes. Blocking his magic would present an issue. Making him– as qamek would– incapable of comprehending how to use his magic…

“Then there is an argument for it.”

If this were a purely academic discussion, Viago would be delighted. A shame this was something he actually had to deal with.

The contemplative pause lasted only a moment before they were both interrupted by a knock on the door.

“Come in!” Teia called, and moved out from behind the bar to stand elbow-to-elbow with Viago. It wasn’t the first time they’d disappeared into a room together. Viago was certain that Crows from both Houses knew to leave well enough alone unless there was truly an emergency. If the Antaam were making a move…

One of Teia’s agents pushed into the room, singed and frazzled, and brushed her hair back. She stood up straight, arms folded behind her back. A patch of her cape was entirely gone, edges blackened. If someone had jumped down a chimney again…

“It’s the Venatori.”

Of course it was the damn Venatori. The corners of his mouth twitched. Teia frowned, but held both hands up, stopping any further explanations before they could start.

“Now wait just a moment. What’s going on?”

“The storage room is on fire.” At least her voice did not shake.

“Do the patrons of the Diamond know?”

“Not yet, Lady Talon.”

“Good. Let’s not have them panicking on such a fine night. Get the fires extinguished with the closest Crows you can find, and we’ll be over in a moment.” She paused. “What are you waiting for? Get out of here, Alexia!”

Alexia bowed at the waist, jerky and alarmed, and took off down the hall. Teia sighed, uncrossing her arms to set her hands on her hips instead, and glanced up at Viago.

“So…?”

“I suppose he is a mage,” Viago admitted, through grit teeth. And of course it would come out like this.

Teia hid a laugh behind her hand. “Your captive, your problem.”

Mages.

“I have just the thing.”

It would take the Crows a few minutes to properly extinguish the room, and likely more to clean it up to a presentable state. Viago would be tempted to let the Venatori stew for a while, except for the fact that he was awake and evidently cognizant enough to be throwing fire around. Usually, he would tip a flechette in the pale solution he was currently removing from his walking stick. It was not a fine or precise mixture, created to entirely negate adrenaline or stimulants or whatever else the enterprising rogue mage or magister would keep on their person.

“Let me guess. It’s a poison.” Teia watched with removed interest, though the upturned crook of her lips said that maybe she was more interested than not, as he checked the level of the solution and judged it appropriate. It wasn’t especially hard or costly to make. For that reason– and for safety’s sake, to avoid any other incidents, and not because he was annoyed– he’d simply have the Venatori swallow all of it, and make a new batch immediately.

“Of a kind. I have questions for him.”

“So now you have questions?”

He opened the door. Teia passed him, glancing back at him through the brushed-back portion of her hair, and raised her brows.

“I have more questions. They can wait until we’ve addressed this mess.”

“Until you’ve addressed it. Lorenzo may have found him, but you’re the one who deals with all the fiddly business. Until we’ve narrowed down which necks need blades in them? I’ll leave this up to you.”

Which was patently untrue, but he knew better than to argue right now. They could argue later. They would argue later, he corrected, somewhere more private and less likely to be interrupted.

He hadn’t noticed just how swift and purposeful his stride had become until he looked to the side and saw Teia’s hair bobbing as she nearly jogged to keep up with him. He slowed, forcing his shoulders to lower, his brow to unknit, and paused at the entrance of the storeroom.

“Good luck in there,” Teia said, and split off with Alexia to disappear into one of the side rooms.

Chapter Text

Cantori Diamond Storage Room

Viago cast a critical eye over the charred storeroom. The heavy, acrid bite of burned wood, varnish, and cloth hung in the close, windowless room. Any stronger and his eyes would water. That certainly meant the Venatori was suffering, under the hood, so Viago let the door swing shut with a delicate click. The room would air out later.

Ash kicked up around his boots as he took a decisive step further into the room. The attending Crows had done a fine job not only extinguishing the fire but ensuring that not even a stray ember remained to set a new one alight. Darkened patches evidenced exactly where the fire had set, and Viago placed it confidently as a panicked, inelegant spray of flaming darts. At least it was not a fireball, or a much more dramatic meteor. It was magic, nonetheless, even if it did not risk collapsing the roof of the Diamond.

Which would have solved Viago’s Venatori problem, he supposed, if not create a whole host of different ones. On a night like this, already excruciatingly long, he was not sure what he would prefer.

He’d drawn his examination out long enough for the Venatori to know he was well and truly in trouble. The captive had been silent in the cage since Viago’s entrance, huddled with his back pressed to the bars and his arms crossed over his chest. His injured leg was cocked awkwardly, leaned against the bars for support; his good leg was drawn up to his chest. The edges of his sleeves were singed, pointing even more to an outburst of magic fueled more by disoriented panic than active malice.

If it were an escape attempt, he surely would be dead by now. Viago approached the cage. The Venatori could not squirm much further away from him, but made an admirable effort. Viago made no effort of disguising his displeasure on the best of days. The scent of smoke would cling to the fine darkened samite of his suit until he could have it cleaned, at both great effort and great cost, so he especially made no attempt now, and spent a brief moment savoring the wary, deferent fear radiating from the Venatori.

All good things must come to an end. He had questions, still.

“What is your name, Venatori?”

Even as the quiet stretched from a tense moment to a painful silence, Viago did not intend to repeat himself. If he could not recognize even a simple question like this– Teia might disapprove of letting go of a potential source of information, but Viago barely had time to see to his usual responsibilities, let alone this, which was sure to be a more involved project. He’d not had one in a while, not since he tasked himself with successfully suspending deepstalker venom in such a way that it did not immediately eat through any and all substances once applied, and was beginning to get restless.

Even the imaginary Teia in his head could convince him.

Damn it.

He glared down at the Venatori like it was his fault.

“Catello,” the Venatori gave up, finally, and only practice kept Viago’s brows from wrinkling. “Janarius.”

Most of the Venatori he dealt with were older. They were mature, seasoned agents in service of the Tevinter Imperium, or at least the Tevinter Imperium that they wished to bring about. He knew academically that they were not the entirety of the Venatori presence. This Venatori– Catello– could barely pass as an adult. He’d more expect him to be selling fish or pottery at the market than be setting fire to Viago’s storage room.

“How old are you?”

It was an easy question to get him used to answering them, Viago justified to himself. It worked on nervous fledglings, occasionally, to allow them an easy question they couldn’t possibly get incorrect before working up to something harder. Viago rarely bothered. That sort of supportiveness was more Teia’s expertise.

“I’m forty.”

Again, Viago was able to maintain a straight face. Any concern he might have had about the Venatori agent being a plant, someone intent on worming their way into the Diamond and striking the Crows from there– completely evaporated. Catello was a horrid liar.

It wasn’t even a believable lie. He would never make it as a Crow.

And he couldn’t make it as a Venatori, Viago reminded himself, and stared at Catello for several long, agonizing moments, daring him to look away first.

He did. His head jerked to the side, and then down, and he worried his nails in his wrist as Viago’s piercing stare showed no indication of leaving him.

“You are a lucky fool, Catello.”

Viago knelt. The fine samite of his suit produced not even a whisper. If he were on a contract, the impeccably tight weave both protected his body and concealed his presence. In the Diamond, it was simply a fashion statement. Crows did those well; and Viago, exceptionally well. The luxury and lethality of his outfit was lost on Catello, who still refused to look at him.

“I’m giving you the chance to explain yourself.”

The draping fabric of Catello’s hood swayed as he glanced to each damning burn patch in the room. Viago did not need an explanation for that.

“You said you could help.”

Viago reluctantly accepted his long pauses as some combination of terror and continued disorientation. The terror was useful; that, Viago could turn to his purpose. Catello exhaled. It was shaky, and light, pained and hesitant, but Viago found that similarly useful.

Afraid, yes. Hurting, yes. A terrible liar. But he was cooperative, and for all Viago could see he had nothing to gain and everything to lose by being troublesome now. Even if all he had to gain was his life, that was motivation.

“The Venatori…” He paused, reformulated his thoughts. Viago waited. “There was… business in Treviso. I was sent to help. Then the Antaam started showing up. The Venatori were giving them things and having them… they were doing something,” he finished lamely, grasping at details that continued to elude him. It was something.

And unlike earlier, not a lie.

“I find it hard to believe hardline Tevinter supremacists would work with the Antaam, even on foreign shores.” Viago pressed, leaned forward, watched as Catello shrank back and stared at his feet. He had a glaring opportunity here to attack the Fifth Talon. Any would-be assassin would be a fool not to. He had faculty of his magic, and it was not just the pale spark-tossing of a novice mage or street entertainer.

He cowered, instead, trying to give Viago what he wanted.

“Believe me, I tried to point that out.”

“And your allies took unkindly to it, and opted to silence you, instead.”

Viago clicked his tongue. Catello flinched, and froze, and after a moment nodded.

“That explains where the qamek came from– yes, I know what you were dosed with.”

Catello fidgeted. He pressed against the side of the cage, still attempting to retreat and finding nowhere to go. Viago ignored that and fished the magebane solution from his pocket.

“You’ll find that I have a lighter touch than your compatriots. If you are to stay here, we’ll avoid any more excitement.” He held the vial up to the dim light and allowed Catello to get a look at it. It could be anything; it could, indeed, be Viago’s own daily dose of Adder’s Kiss, and would leave him hypoxic and choking on his own blood within several minutes. The Venatori had no choice but to take it, and just maybe after he woke up no worse for the wear Viago would have built some trust with him– if not trust, the knowledge that Viago would treat him with an even hand, if not a kind one.

“That is–”

“It will leash your magic, but not your mind. You know about the depth of the Venatori’s association with the Antaam, and have inside knowledge of locations and people. Plainly put… you have use to me. I don’t think the destruction you caused was intentional, but it still will not be happening again.”

He uncapped the vial and passed it through the bars. Catello took it with cautious effort, the slight tremor in his hand not quite enough to spill any. Viago wasn’t concerned. Even an overdose did little more than leave his target unconscious for longer than necessary, and Catello wouldn’t suffer from more time spent unconscious.

“Drink it.”

“What–”

“Now.”

Catello’s hand disappeared underneath his hood. The impression of his hand pushed at the fabric, and Viago caught the skin of his throat as he swallowed. That hood would have to go eventually.

Viago decided to leave it, for now. Having to see his face twisted in pain and terror could only make any future sessions together more unpleasant, if not harder.

He held his hand out and Catello returned the vial. The effect was almost immediate. Catello at least seemed to understand that Viago was no longer about to unceremoniously kill him; once he registered the fuzziness in his head, new leaden weight in his limbs, exhaustion and distant, sleepy well-being pushing out all other thought, he let himself slump against the bars into a less-scrunched position. At least he’d not cut off circulation to anything, sitting like that.

He was down within thirty seconds. In combat, with blood rushing, even the slightest stumble was lethal. Viago had slit the throat of more than one unaware, sedated mage.

He hoped to get more use out of Catello than that.

Viago returned to the door, bypassing rapping smartly on it in favor of producing his own key and letting himself out. Teia and her Crow were nowhere to be seen, and it was now almost First Hour.

He made his way to the temporary bedroom he had within the Diamond, intent on jotting his thoughts down before finally getting some sleep.

An Embossed Leather-Bound Journal

The journal is penned in a neat, precise hand. The ink is midnight black and could not be more expensive even if imported. The paper itself is fine; thick and smooth, taking ink without even a smudge or bleeding.

The civilians in Treviso strain against occupation. Where the Crows were once outlaws in plain sight, the shadowy enforcers of Antiva’s reign, they are now heroes and defenders stemming the inflow of Antaam. Never before have the Crows been so free to engage with Treviso’s citizens in broad daylight, and more and more come seeking entry to our ranks. Just yesterday Teia told me that her agents have been approached more times than in the prior year alone. If she wants to recruit them, that is up to her. I will not dilute the ranks of House de Riva with lesser stock.

Besides, there are more ways to contribute to our effort than taking up a blade. I wish more people understood that. The life of a Crow is not all masquerades and daring assassinations. Part of the reason it is so difficult to enter our life as an adult is that succeeding as a Crow requires an entirely different outlook; on killing, on morals, but also on the people we protect.

It sounds unseasonably noble, but most people are not fit for life as a Crow. It is our responsibility to shield them from the grim necessity of shedding blood. We aren’t even making much coin off of this Antaam situation.

Governor Ivenci isn’t making it easy for us. They know their limits of their power, and are vexingly adept at using it to stymie our efforts to help. They pay lip service to the idea of opposing the Antaam, but have not made headway into denying the Antaam’s presence in Treviso. They allow our enemies to set up camp in government buildings, in public areas, and even at the docks, where the merchant princes willingly part with goods as the price of doing business.

This is not business, and will not be solved by a businessman. No matter how complacent the merchant princes may be for now, the Antaam will not relax their demands– nor will they remain static. Eventually, our invaders will ask for more from the merchant’s coffers than they are willing to give. Then, perhaps, will their greed agree with patriotism.

My power is considerable. But on the citizens of Treviso, they know I will not act without the weight of a contract behind me. So they are emboldened to respond to my letters with pale niceties and lukewarm promises of resistance, and continue to bow to the Antaam’s demands.

The Crows are displeased. I am displeased, though there is only so much I can do without overstepping the bounds of propriety. The novice de Riva I sent away near on six months ago is rash, but I have never doubted that they care about Treviso.

I cannot say the same for the merchant princes, or Governor Ivenci. I will be keeping a close eye on both. There is too much at stake to allow treason to rot Treviso’s chance of survival to the core.

The matter of our Venatori guest provides a fascinating opportunity into the inner workings of the Venatori in Treviso. If they have taken to working with the Antaam, he surely is not the only zealot to make his displeasure known, and not the only one to be silenced in such a way. One must wonder how many live in a mute mental prison, shackled by drugs and blood magic. It would certainly explain the cult’s cohesion. Most would tend to splinter by now, even without betraying the tenets of their cause.

But I am getting ahead of myself. Eusebio’s report evidences a man’s desperate attempts to claw back control of himself, to go even as far as bleeding out. I would argue that seeking aid from a Crow– we are not yet mortal enemies, but if it is true and the Venatori’s cooperation with the Antaam runs deeper than mere association, the case may change– is a more dire avenue than simple death. Teia was right. He knows what we do to our enemies.

Terror and blood magic aside, he has been quite cooperative thus far. I would have killed him sooner otherwise. I suspect that is his ultimate goal. The Crows are not known for mercy. But; the Venatori have turned their adherents into weapons. I wouldn’t begrudge him the opportunity to be turned against them, and if he gains some small measure of revenge by lending his life to our blades, far be it from me to deny that.

He wants to help. All signs indicate that he sought out the Crows to be used up and discarded, much as the Venatori did to him prior. Working past whatever blood magic and the saar-qamek did to his mind will be a challenge, and I suspect for him it is a losing battle. Not impossible, with the right person to guide him through it. That person is not me. For now, I’m the best he has, so he’ll cooperate. At the very least he trusts that I will make use of him.

I have missed more involved projects like this…

Nevertheless, the night is long and the morning will arrive sooner than I wish. I will allow the younger Crows to work under cover of night.

Chapter Text

Cantori Diamond Storage Room

Catello woke to pain. There was an awful lot of waking to pain, recently– from his pierced leg, from the bruises on his side, from a low and constant headache and the tugging pull of residual blood magic. Magebane didn’t hurt, exactly, but it always left a hollow, echoing ache, like the twitch of a phantom limb. His magic was something that he’d always held close to him. It was a comfort, once he learned to control it.

And now gone. Beyond his reach. Buried, with drugs and exhaustion. Defanged and caged, the Crows did not see fit to torture him further. He’d expected brutal interrogation and a swift death following. If not what he wanted. Death seemed so close, these days, but just far enough away that he dared not hope for it.

He opened his eyes, giving them just enough time to focus blearily on the opposite wall.

The door was open.

Whoever was in the room was stealthy. There must be someone. He shifted to something approaching a steady sit, drawing his good leg up to brace against the back of the cage, and scanned first the area by the door, and then–

There.

A tall man leaned against the support beam, arms behind his back, one foot neatly crossed in front of the other. Catello fought down a reflexive shiver– he was so familiar. He’d seen him before, somewhere, but whether it was as a brief, anonymous meeting of eyes in the market or as something else he couldn’t quite place. That he was a Crow was enough reason for fear. Perhaps he would lose the fear, soon. It would drain out of his body and be replaced with heavy exhaustion. Or the blood magic, whatever was left, would burrow back into his mind and puppet him, and he would curl up behind it like a cat at a fireplace, uncaring until his being woke to the horror of it.

The fear was strong and sharp and it felt better than nothing. He inclined his head, staring at the trailing green ends of the sash hanging from the Crow’s hip.

“You really couldn’t have just died.”

His voice was too smooth. For the anger Catello heard under it, he was almost friendly– like addressing a child that had broken a plate.

Or a dog that had pissed on his floor.

Either way, Catello felt like he was about to get kicked, or worse.

The Crow pushed away from the support beam with his hands, taking two measured steps closer to the cage. As he brought his arms in front, Catello caught the glinting edge of a long dagger.

So yes. Worse. A noise escaped his throat, wavering and unsure.

“Don’t worry. It’s been cruel, the way they keep you caged here. And for so long…”

He flipped the knife over his hand, the sleek bone hilt dancing over the pitch-black leather of his gloves. It would be hypnotizing even if Catello’s eyes weren’t glued to the blade. What he had done to deserve this, whether intentional or accidental or because, at some point, his actions were no longer his own, he didn’t know. From what he knew of Crows, they did not often monologue at their victims. Or perhaps that was contracts? There was no coin on his head, he was sure.

“I’ll make it fast.”

Footsteps sounded down the hall. The Crow’s lip curled, and he twisted to the door, the blade disappearing into his coat, and Catello sagged back against the cage. Catello had been digging his nails into his arm, he noticed. A tight ache. A sting. The pressure of his nails carving pink half-moons into his skin.

“I didn’t expect to find you here, Illario.”

Of course, it would not do anything, and he did not even have the energy for it, but Catello was seized by the heavy and miserable urge to cry. Every single time he’d dealt with this particular Crow, he’d ended up getting drugged. Which was better than the alternative– or worse, if he wanted this to be over with already?-- of what the other Crow promised.

A quick blade, or a slow poison? Or worse?

Even with his mind as fuzzy as it was, Catello spared an uncomfortable moment of admiration at how entirely different Illario appeared. The anger was gone; his brows were smooth and he wasn’t quite smiling, but he wasn’t sly, and for all appearances relaxed and innocent.

“Or you, Viago. This is…” he raised a brow, and gestured to Catello. “Rather sad, is it not? What purpose could you have with this?”

“A lead, on the Venatori and the Antaam, and whatever links there may be between them.”

Viago did not like Illario, Catello realized. If he had thought their previous interactions were stormy…

Viago set a hand on his hip. His attention settled on Catello, taking his measure in a brief and piercing moment, and then he turned back to Illario. “It’s none of your concern.”

Illario straightened up. He took another step to the cage– Catello froze, even more purposefully, digging his nails into his arm for whatever sense of pathetic grounding he could extract from the pain– and trailed a finger delicately down the bar, midway, propped his elbow on the side, tilted his head in Viago’s direction.

“I beg to differ. You know the Venatori are my enemy, too, and for personal reasons. But surely you could find a better way to, ah, investigate the links.”

Viago shifted his arms. Crossing them, now. Whatever Illario was saying, he didn’t buy it.

“This is not the only effort we are making.”

“This shouldn’t even be an effort. Look at him.” Illario tapped the bars. Catello dared not look at him, or Viago, and settled on a scorchmark in the wall beyond them both instead. His fault. Tight, fizzling fear wound itself around the pain and fatigue. “This is sad, Viago. You’d get more information from a trained nug. Put him out of his misery and put your effort into something less hopeless.”

They were snapping at each other right now. What if they turned their attentions on him? For as horrid as it could be, dealing with magisters or enforcers or even some of the massive, surly Antaam, never before had he felt so much like he was in the presence of predators. Incredulous, and upset, and resigned, Catello decided he much preferred the Crow who repeatedly drugged him. What a mess.

Viago cleared his throat. He tapped the side of the cage with his cane, the opposite side as Illario’s body, and this time Catello didn’t flinch away.

“I decide what will be done with him.” That displeased, hard edge of finality should not be so reassuring. “We should not be arguing in front of the prisoner. If you have something to say, I know you are aware of where my office is.”

He made an effort to soften his tone. It did not do much, but the shift from accusatory to prickly neutral was perceptible enough. “If you are so eager to help investigate the Venatori, there is a list of what must be done.”

There was something there that Catello didn’t recognize. A middle ground. A memory, or an event, something known to the two of them but out of his reach. He stared at the scorchmark until it may as well light itself back on fire, avoiding looking at either Viago or Illario’s boots, or, worse, their faces.

“Let’s go.” Viago stepped away. Catello did not yet sigh in relief even as a hard knot unfurled itself in his stomach. Illario, likewise, thumped the cage with his elbow one more time before separating from it and stalking to the door. “We’ll talk more about it, I am sure.”

“How considerate of you.” Ilario hummed, and paused at the doorframe. He looked over his shoulder; at Catello keeping an eye on them as well as he could, and winked.

The door shut, and then locked, and they were gone.

Viago’s Office

Being in the Diamond without Teia nearby left an odd feeling in Viago’s chest. She was distracting at the best of times; perhaps he should be grateful for the uninterrupted opportunity to get some work done.

But what a distraction she was. And she’d know what to do here better than he would, he thought again, with increasing amounts of consternation.

Illario was grieving. Still. Nobody blamed him, but such depths of juvenile passion as to kill a useful captive were beyond even him.

Or not beyond even him. Honestly…

Viago would never dream to speak poorly of Caterina. In truth, he would hesitate to speak poorly of Lucanis, even now that he was gone and unlikely to issue either threats or otherwise. He did not care for Illario, and did not hesitate to make that dislike clear. Viago did not care for most people. It wasn’t a special dislike.

Illario would prefer that, Viago suspected, and that was all the more reason not to indulge his ridiculous vendetta.

The urge to write in his journal struck, and he set it aside. There would be time for reflection later. For now, he needed to return to the storage room for what he’d actually intended to be there for. With any hope, Catello would have calmed down by now. He tried, even when he was terrified and– Viago suspected– not entirely sure where he was, or who he was talking to. He was almost certainly not a spy.

Viago would have preferred him to be. Viago was a Crow, yes, but he did not luxuriate in pointless cruelty.

The scouts told him about increasing blood magic. Missing people. If anyone could give him answers, it would be Catello.

If he knew the right questions to get at those answers…

Catello was a puzzle. When pressed and poked at the right angles, he would twist himself around the haze shrouding his mind and give Viago what he was looking for. He’d been worrying at his skin again. After Illario came into the room, from the brief glance Viago could spare the captive, he’d seen blood caked under his nails and new shiny wet under the hem of his sleeve. Illario had not been there merely to observe. Whatever he was planning, he would not get another chance.

But perhaps Catello would be grateful to his savior, and more helpful than usual. Viago doubted it. Any of his withholding was not from a genuine desire to be difficult.

He twisted the key in the lock, felt for the heavy click of the tumbler, and gave a moment for his thoughts to settle– for Catello to anticipate his entrance– before opening the door.

Catello had not moved. One could believe he fell into motionless hibernation when Viago was not in the room, with how easily he found his half-slumped, protective curl whenever Viago was there. In his absence, he’d picked even more of his wrists to ruin.

“Good riddance. That’s over with.”

He relaxed. He did not uncurl much, but his gaze skipped from somewhere in the direction of the floor to the wooden molding on the wall, and then to the hem of Viago’s coat. He sought out his eyes, and then looked down once more. But it was more than what Viago expected.. Teia would be proud.

“Illario shared his concerns with me, and I agree.” He folded his hands behind his back. “We’ve been too permissive of blood magic within Treviso. You will tell me what you know. Names, if you can. Locations, if you cannot.”

Altogether, he must have spent twenty minutes in the dim, close room, carefully drawing out scraps of information and scattered names. Of those names, he held several in his mind to investigate, even though he was not fully sure the already spread-thin Crows would have the resources to do so. That was a matter for concern. With the occupation, with the apathetic merchant princes, now with the growing threat of Tevinter supremacists and blood mages infesting places that Viago once thought to be safe… not to mention what rumblings he’s heard of that wretched god Rook went off chasing months ago.

What a mess they would return to, if they ever did. Viago tried not to linger on the odd, sour pain of that. He’d been the one to send them away– for their own safety, to grow up a bit, to see more of the world and deliver news from the nations outside of Antiva– but, as with any of his Crows and perhaps more that he’d dare not admit, their absence stung.

They were about Catello’s age, actually, if not three or four years older. In that area. Catello hadn’t given him a true answer on that yet.

Forty. Viago saw the humor in it, even if Catello did not.

He re-dosed Catello with the magebane pills he had taken to creating, just for ease of administration and so he did not have to sanitize his vial every time, and left without much further discussion. Talking to Catello was not relaxing, but he was enjoying it, in a way. All the more reason to pass him off before too long.

If he hadn’t outlived his usefulness by then. Viago was quietly certain that he could find some more use, if he had to, and set that thought aside.

A Nightmare

Minrathous is so beautiful during the day. He’s fifteen– or sixteen, or maybe nineteen, taking a moment of fresh air away from his books and scrolls. He can’t afford a tutor like the rest of his classmates. So he stays up later. Reads a few more books, studies harder, paces around the shortcuts instead of using them. If his father were more powerful…

If he weren’t a mage…

If Tevinter weren’t forced to operate like this, with such harsh stratification, perhaps anyone could rise to the rank of magister without resenting their station of birth. Tevinter used to span all of Thedas. Tevinter used to be respected as a great power, a seat of magic, a wondrous beacon of strength and security, and now it was know for… what?

Slaving, and the Black Divine, petty infighting, and blood magic. If he didn’t know that was not the true state of Tevinter, he’d be ashamed to be Tevene.

That was how it all began. Nothing malicious, he told himself, and nothing cruel– the late nights talking with an older mage who finally showed him all the shortcuts he’d never known and snuck him into the restricted section of the library told him also, in cautious piecemeal, of the group he was a part of. Catello listened.

And then had gone to a meeting with him, in the back room of the dorm, and hid his surprise at how many of his classmates were already involved in this. How many people shared his thoughts. How they, the students of magic and loyal of Tevinter, would be making a difference, fixing the laxity of the upper classes and the destitution of the lower, making society better and making Tevinter stronger and going back to when things were better.

It was very inspiring.

False, also. And he’d not figured it out until he was in Treviso with no way back. With his garb off, he could sit on the edge of the starlit dock and hear the fishermen whisper. He got better at spotting distant, indistinct blots of fabric and metal slinking around the rooftops, and then wisely pretended not to see. He avoided Zara Renata’s loyal, lobotomized dolls and kept his head down and worked for the glory of Tevinter reborn, even though he was no longer in Tevinter and was sure his letters home never made it there.

He was selfish. Stupid, too. Any sort of damning accusation that could be thrown at him was true, and though it stung to ruminate on it, he had nothing but time. He would have stayed quiet like the rest of the zealots– he was, and a coward– if they hadn’t started working with the Antaam.

His first mistake was speaking out about it, and his second mistake was not recanting, and after that he was surprised at just how quickly it all turned. From there, it was a blur.

It should have been obvious. And it was, in hindsight. Blood magic was an easy solution to a difficult problem. And the Venatori being one big happy united family that never fought was a lie.

Through it all, he wanted to go home. He wanted to find his sister and tell her that she was right, that he was stupid, that he was being used and was sorry and that he wanted it to be over. Just when– and why– they started eroding his mind with more than blood magic, he couldn’t remember. It was all a dull haze. How many times had he wished for clarity, clawing at the walls of his mind and feeling like a prisoner? And how many times had his consciousness of the world faded out, and left him feeling weak and drained, cut and bruised, and not knowing what had happened to him, and all by people he’d considered friends?

Of course it turned to anger. He always used to leash his emotions so carefully. He was a good mage. And especially, good for a mage from the lower classes. It was his fault for thinking that he would ever be one of them. He’d house a good Rage demon, probably. It would twist him to pieces and burn him alive and then dismantle the Venatori stronghold in Treviso board by board. It would smoke and smolder and spit embers and ash for days afterward. It would…

He held onto the rage whenever he could feel it. Those moments were fewer, further between. Whenever he pushed against the leash around his mind he would be taken soon after, pulled to an office with wood-paneled walls and fine Antivan oil paintings and an elegant oil lamp with the base carved into the shape of a crow, and then made to stand still, and wait, and watch the oily liquid be poured before his eyes. The magister wore white silk gloves with the fine embroidery of Tevinter’s gods spread across the backs of his hands, their tails trailing up to where the silk ended midway up his forearm. Those were the moments he felt closest to himself.

And gone, again, after taking the poison into himself and grasping at those sharp little pieces as they fell away.

And then he would be empty, for a time.

The first time had been the worst, not knowing what would happen, or what it was. His mind skipped over hazy dreamlike calm into fear. Always fear, these days, sickly and clinging on the back of any other emotion he dared to feel.

His body twitched. Wakefulness. Less than that, and more, as his body wrenched itself from exhaustion and nothingness in favor of sudden, burning vigor. There was no thought to it. His arm crashed against the side of the cage, and before his mind could catch up to what he was doing, he reflexively tried to summon his little burning darts, and could not. Thoughts were present at a low hum; a half-conscious I should stop this. Or, higher, and more anxious, I’m going to get in trouble, and then, overlapping it all, I need to get out of here.

His body protested the movement. He barely felt it. He would be feeling it. This– thing, the fit that had overtaken him, was inflicting him with the same helpless detachment as blood magic. There was him, watching it happen, and…

The door opened. A masked Crow entered the room, glancing at the walls and then at him, and in Catello’s vision the dark-cloaked figure moved as a doubled apparition as they closed the distance to the cage. He may have gasped out something like an I’m sorry.

The Crow knelt in front of the cage, reaching into the inner pocket of their jacket. He knew what that meant by now, and mustered only cursory struggle as they reached through the bars to press a damp cloth over his mouth and nose. Dizziness struck immediately, creeping light-headedness that cut through the fear and restless fervor and left a quiet, sleepy calm in its wake. He wasn’t fully out, could have kept fighting, maybe should have, and not submitted so gladly to whatever small gesture of unintentional mercy this was, but relief stilled his fight. He let his arms drop, cradling his elbows, and consciousness fell away without further effort.

-

Chapter Text

Cantori Diamond Storage Room

“You’re going to be seeing a change in hands soon,” the Crow guard– his name was Santiago, if Catello remembered correctly, but who even knew at this point– told him. Santiago rarely, if ever, spoke to him. At most he poked his head in once or twice a day to make sure Catello hadn’t keeled over dead, or to deliver dinner-rolls that must be leftovers from the casino below. There was no malice to him; no particular desire to see Catello suffer, but no desire to remain in his company, either. Catello could not blame him for that. Typically, though with decreasing frequency, it was Viago de Riva letting himself into the room and poking and prodding Catello for what scraps of information he could share.

He took a frail, sick sense of comfort in that. He wasn’t useless. It had to be wrung out of him, pried from the shadowed and magic-twisted corners of his mind, but Viago would make some use of him.

Which led to the question. He cleared his throat with a hushed, sore noise.

“Why?”

“To someone who knows more precisely the questions to ask.”

As if that made sense, Catello groused internally. He straightened his back against the bars, and before he could ask another question Santiago continued. He always kept a safe distance from the cage, aside from when Catello was seized by fits brought on by the remnants of blood magic and he drugged him to docility, which made it all the more jarring when he approached now.

He paused when Catello shrank back. He set his heel behind himself and shifted his weight, not quite retreating– a show of weakness he had no business making– but softening the intent behind the gesture. “I hazard to say you are familiar with the Demon of Vyrantium.”

“That’s–”

What could he say to that? A thousand plaintive thoughts warred for space in his mind. And despite knowing that yes, nothing he could say or do would help him, and that was by both their design and his own, he sought out the bars of the cage to grip. “You can’t give me to him. Please!”

It wasn’t as if other Crows weren’t adept at handling mages. Catello would not do them the disservice of underestimating them. It wasn’t as if the other Crows weren’t adept at handling him.

It did take a very certain kind of person to be appellated the Mage Killer. It was a person that Catello did not want to meet.

Santiago crossed his arms. Mercifully, if he was thinking of reminding Catello of his powerlessness in this whole situation, he did not. Even if he had, the door chose that moment to open, and with a sinking sense of paralyzed fear Catello tracked the sound of two pairs of leather boots making the transition from varnished hallway to bare wood.

“You’re early.” Santiago observed; his voice softened further to shy, awed deference. He moved out of the way of the cage.

He left the room, slipping behind the two newcomers as deftly as a shadow, and Catello ached at the loss. He wasn’t much of a shield, but he missed him already.

“They’re keeping him in a cage?” That did not sound like what he expected the famed Mage Killer to sound like. Young, and nakedly amused at his predicament, and even with that there was little unkindness. Catello could not bring himself to look up. Even with his face guarded still by the stained and blood-stiff curtain of his veil, the thought of eye contact burned. However brief. Talking to Viago already made him feel like he was turning inside out, and he’d figured out by now that Viago wasn’t going to hurt him if he didn’t need to.

“Rook…”

That must be the Mage Killer. He spoke in a private, low tone that Catello strained to hear. Fortunately, he did not whine at the thought of his impending… what? Doom? Torture? From the horror stories he had heard, even with the mandatory embellishment pruned away, Dellamorte was an unstoppable force of death.

“Viago said–” Rook approached. They were wearing the typical full-body coverage of the Crows, a suit of elegant black plumage that expertly concealed a small armory’s worth of weaponry. “Actually, I’m not surprised. What a welcome-home gift, don’t you think?”

“Somehow, I hoped that this was a joke.”

Rook fiddled with the lock. Catello’s blood froze. Would they just… take him out? What was the game, here? The hand withdrew.

“From Viago?”

Dellamorte chuckled. His own hand drifted down one of the bars.

He was smaller than Catello expected, somehow.

He cast the thought away with something approaching shame.

“You have a point. But you are right, Rook. We’ll have to find somewhere to put him.”

Catello moved slowly, as to not startle them, but neither of the Crows above him appeared to be paying attention. He hugged himself. It was a feeble, pitiful soothe.

“The Lighthouse will figure it out. I’m sure Solas has one or two more secret rooms he didn’t like people knowing about.”

“I will leave that up to you,” Dellamorte replied, and then– Catello felt it as an almost physical weight, the heavy force of his attention– took him in. “But I wonder what it will create.”

Cantori Diamond Storage Room

Lucanis could not say for certain, but had his suspicions that Viago de Riva was punishing him for something. For his assumed demise? For the Venatori running rampant across Treviso without Lucanis there to stem the flow? For leaving him to deal with Illario? It could be some combination of it all. The huddled figure in the cage before him did little to inspire confidence in how Treviso was faring in the face of all… this. He was a lead. More than than a simple lead, he was a Venatori– in the flesh– and apparently one eager enough to cast of his allegiance that he would go through all this trouble. If Viago were to be believed, he’d not once complained.

Through pain, and questioning, and whatever substances Viago’s close attentions subjected him to, he had been cooperative. Lucanis’ assassin instincts wanted not to trust any of it. It would be so like Renata to embed a spy in the Crows. Someone they would overlook, either in the capacity of harmlessness, or simply by being above doubt. And where would that leave them, then? Trusting whatever some apparent defector said?

He’d not spent agonizing ages in the Ossuary to swallow yet more of Zara’s lies.

But for now, this was the best they had. He smoothed his thumb down the beaten metal of a cage bar, and did not miss how the young man below him tensed. Even for a spy, it was a long time to playact harmlessness, and everything he had said Viago was able to corroborate in some abstract, scattered way. The boredom of being alone in a dim room would have plenty of men cracking before long.

He set his reluctance to the side and reminded himself once more that this was the best lead they had. Taking in the sorry sight more fully, he caught yet more evidence that Catello was who he said he was. What he said he was. White gauze covered yet-unhealed wounds, and on the backs of his wrists and hands Lucanis caught sight of scabbed-over digmarks that disappeared even underneath his sleeves. Several of these scabs were obsessively reopened, pink and raw. Barely perceptible, and aided more by how still he was, Lucanis saw him shivering with exhaustion. He’d not even addressed Lucanis yet.

He had a reputation, he supposed. One that did not wane with an extended absence. And if it did…

He and Rook had work. That, at least, smoothed the expectant ache in his chest.

Rook de Riva kept fiddling with the lock. Every time they did, their hand drifting closer to the midline of the cage and thus Catello’s huddled form, he would flinch. Lucanis spared little sympathy for Venatori on principle.

He was an unstoppable, peerless killer. Less so of an assassin. Rook must have noticed his reflection; they clicked their tongue, made a soft and sympathetic noise in the back of their throat.

“We ought to get him out of here, then. Viago seemed fairly certain that he’d overstayed his welcome.”

“He’s lucky that Viago wasn’t in the mood for another guinea pig,” Lucanis corrected. Rook snickered.

“How do we know that? He gave you pills. I fail to suspect that he didn’t test them on the Venatori.”

Ah, yes. Viago had left, alongside a brief letter, a small linen bag of neatly-pressed pills. They were– as it had been explained to him– dried and powdered magebane, some sugar, and an inert binder to hold it all together.

Sugar, Viago?

Here is the key. Go.

Rook knelt in front of the cage. They peered at the Venatori, and then up at Lucanis. Inside the cage, the Venatori froze, as if conditioned. Of course.

Lucanis went for the hidden pocket of his coat, where he kept a small vial of a sedative. At least Catello was already used to it, and this would be less of a show of force and more a typical, routine drugging. Perhaps kinder than he deserved.

Lucanis sighed. He took the spot next to Rook, and addressed the young man in the cage.

“This will be easier if you take your hood off.”

Easier for which of them? If Lucanis saw his face, he would have to confront it all– no longer a featureless enemy, or even a defeated captive, but what he knew he was dealing with under it all; something tortured, and tired, and hurting. That was the part that got him in trouble.

Catello raised his hands– slowly, with evident reluctance– and seized the veil by the top to pull it down. Rook turned his face to the side and coughed, and then stood to pace.

Catello had been crying.

Lucanis held his gaze for a moment. The Venatori looked away, bowing his head. To hide his shame, to hide from Lucanis’ attention– he permitted it. At the very least terror made him compliant.

But he wasn’t terrified of Viago anymore, was he? And he’d been perfectly well-behaved, aside from what the guard described as night terrors but Lucanis suspected to be much more.

“Breathe in.”

There was no need for particular cruelty with a man who had been in fear for weeks. Lucanis dabbed the drug on a cloth and reached through the bars, and though Catello’s unease overpowered even the pain and exhaustion, he sat cooperatively still and did not fight.

He went down quickly. He was used to this. With any luck, it would not be required further.

“Come unlock the cage, Rook. We should return to the Lighthouse before he wakes up.”

Rook circled back and bent to retrieve the Venatori. They slung him over their shoulder, giving his leg an encouraging pat, and tilted their head toward the door. “Then let’s get out of here. But we’re coming back once he’s settled. Fletcher says there’s… oh, well, I’ll fill you in on it later.”

Lucanis knew that he had been absent, but so, apparently, had Rook. Only back just now and already participating in Fletcher’s ridiculous black market racket? They’d been popular, indeed.

“Did you want to bring the hood?”

Lucanis spared a glance to the bloody, stained fabric, and then nudged it back with his foot. He’d not be needing it anymore. “Leave it.”

The Fade

The last thing he remembered was the Mage Killer kneeling in front of him. He had oddly gentle eyes; a soft almond shape, deep and warm brown, long and feathery lashes. How that face could belong to a killer as prodigious and prolific the Mage Killer escaped belief. And yet, he did, and was there, and the way he handled Catello was undeservedly gentle as well.

But that was over. He was laid on a pad on the ground. Unrestrained, which was a relief. As he cracked his eyes open against the dim light the true extent of where he was settled in alongside the typical aches and exhaustion. He was in a cell. That was expected. But he had enough room to stand up and move around, about six good long paces worth on either side, so that was an improvement over the cage. There was a bucket in the corner– also an improvement over the cage– and a small tin cup of water in the opposite corner, by the bars. A folded blanket sat at the foot of the cot. The bricks were fully sealed, for the most part, except there were several missing chunks filled in by a metal grate instead, and when he peered through them saw that he appeared to be underneath a floating island, and suspended in…

Somewhere he should not be. The same tight, heaving fear crept from his stomach to his heart and to his throat. He eased himself off of the cot to crawl to the floor grate, then, looking down in the vain hopes of seeing land and finding instead only more swirling fog, and chunks of floating land in the distance, the fogged silhouette of grand statues and…

He threw up. Not much came out. It splattered on the grate and passed through it and fell into the Fade. He threw up again, and this time it was only convulsions, and he was a grown man but now crying again. Chittering noises massed outside the walls. Instead of yelling, possibly screaming for help– there was no help coming, and none he would want– he wiped his mouth with his sleeve and shuffled back to the cot on his knees, quieting himself to only mildly hysterical sniffling on the way.

It was his own fault for somewhere along the way of all of this regaining some desire to live. As Viago chipped away at the nightmare, drawing out useful bits and knowledge he could weaponize against the other Venatori, Catello’s mind slowly became his own again. And wasn’t that wonderful? Perhaps it was too little, too late. He’d gone into this all with the end goal of being slaughtered, his sins behind him, and with his death at the very least ensuring that some of his mistakes would be righted.

Even if he did not die. Even if he lived. Where would he go? Certainly not back to Minrathous. He doubted his parents would take him back. Not Treviso. When he was planning on escaping, a far-off time he could remember only in the fuzziest of stolen memories, he’d had some private picture of a pottery workshop and rows of bookshelves, and a happy cat to finish it all off. It may not have been beyond his reach at some point.

It certainly was now.

The exhaustion and misery caught up to his cramping stomach, and slowly overtook it. He glanced at the tin cup and thought about chasing the sour taste from his mouth, and found no energy or will to close the distance.

Whatever happened, Lucanis would return. He’d have questions. It was the least Catello could to do keep helping.