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Guinevere felt disgusting, like they needed a bath to scrub their skin raw. They hated this. Hated targets like this one. How they had to be exactly what these people wanted to lure them close enough for a knife between the ribs, a poisoned kiss, or just the right amount of electricity to their heart. And it was never anyone that should die for the right reasons. It was always petty squabbles or a way to get more money. Blocking a trade deal, cracking down on slavery, being too pro-mage, being neutral to the Qun, not being willing to attack Dalish Clans, not being willing to take a bribe, and the list went on and on and on. They resented Annunziato for the jobs he dolled out. Everyone knew he played favourites and would warn those he liked what jobs were coming down the line. And, of course, if you were someone like Guinevere you got the worst contracts with the worst negotiations. Still, it was all Gunevere had.
You couldn’t have morals if you were a Crow in House Leverone, or if you did you had to be willing to ignore them. Guinevere knew this. They’d known if for as long as they could remember. Despite it all, despite the fact that they knew better, they still wanted the facade of being a good person. Maybe just to make themself feel better. Not that it mattered, they knew what they were and what they did for a living. To keep living, because Maker forbid you fail a job and come back alive.
Guinevere was too caught up in her own thoughts to notice someone was following her. At first. It didn’t take long for her to hear the second set of footsteps. They moved lightly behind her, much like her own. All she wanted was to go home, to take a bath and pretend she would sleep instead of staring up at her ceiling in the dead of night. Instead, she would have to deal with whatever this was.
Had someone taken out a contract on them? Admittedly a bold move and unlikely… but this was Calicata. House Leverone was never above such things, especially in their own city. How easy would it be to pretend Guinevere had an accident? Or took a job where they were in a little over their head. As carefully as they could manage, they slid a knife from their sleeve and turned a corner. They caught a glimpse of the figure following them. Tall, lanky, and cloaked in black with a hood up so Guinevere couldn’t make out any facial features. That was fine.
She didn’t need a face to stab someone between the fourth and fifth ribs.
Their shadow stretched in front of them. A lit building had loomed on the other side of the street before they took a turn, which would give them a perfect tell for when their stalker turned the corner. Her shadow stretched maybe ten feet in front of her, so if she slowed her pace just enough and her stalker sped up to make sure they didn’t loose her… There they were.
Guinevere spun around, flinging the blade from her sleeve at the figure behind her. She pulled a second off her belt, watching as the figure dropped to the ground, her blade sailing over their head. The figure jumped up as she prepared to throw her second blade, hands up. “I must ask that you kindly refrain from killing me. At least don’t try before you’ve listened to what I have to offer you.”
There was a beat of hesitation and the figure stepped closer, lowering their hood. Black, curly hair down to their ears, bright blue eyes, and a narrow face with high, sharp cheekbones. He had light brown skin, a little lighter than Guinevere’s own, and they were certain they had seen him before.
“What, exactly, are you offering?” They watched him with narrowed eyes, knife still in hand and ready to throw.
“Are you familiar with House de Riva?”
That was where Guinevere had recognised him from, this was Viago de Riva. Some new upstart Crow that had joined a couple years ago. He apparently had some skill, at least with poisons, and had gotten a few decent jobs. Mind, his “House” was just him at the moment, trying to scrape out his own place in Crow politics.
“Not particularly,” they said, still watching him. “Nothing worth remembering.”
Viago looked pleased at that, which only put Guinevere more on edge. “I aim to change that. I’m looking to recruit more Cows, but I’d like someone that matches my skills on my side. I’ve heard good things about a particular assassin of House Leverone. If you’re looking for a change of pace, House de Riva would benefit from someone like you.”
“From the sound of it, you’d benefit from anyone right now,” she said, bristling.
“True, I admit, but if you’d like to remain with House Leverone you’re more than welcome to. Not that you aren’t skilled, but I imagine it will be some time before someone else aims to poach you, purely on your age alone. If that’s all, I believe I’ll be on my way,” Viago said, raising his hood. He turned, starting back the way they had come. Guinevere hesitated before stepping forward.
“Wait, Viago!” they called, cringing at how desperate they sounded. Viago paused, turning to look back at them. “What would I need to do, to join your House?”
Even after three years, Annunziato Leverone still terrified Guinevere. She wasn’t a child anymore, and yet even the mention of his name made her blood run cold. Seventeen years she had dreamed of this, that one day she could stand over Annunziato Leverone’s body and finally be free.
Imagining it and living it were two very different things.
They hadn’t meant to kill him, but he’d grabbed them and they refused to let him mistreat them, to hurt them. When they shoved him, they thought it would give them an opening to run into the hall, to get Viago and go back to Salle. Instead, in his old age, Annunziato stumbled and fell. There was a sickening crack as the back of his head hit the desk, and then he was motionless on the ground.
Viago burst into the room, and Guinevere jumped. The De Rivas stared at each other before Viago shut the door, locking it behind him.
“What happened?” he asked, immediately at Guinevere’s side. She gestured to Annunziato’s body and realised her hands were shaking.
“He grabbed me and I pushed him and… Maker, Viago they’re going to kill me,” Guinevere said, voice cracking
“They won’t, Guinevere, look at me,” Viago said, hesitating a beat before he grabbed their shoulders. It made them start, gasping for breath as they met Viago’s eyes. The shock of him touching them is what did it. Both normally avoided touch, in no small part due to Viago’s paranoia about contact poisons and insistence that both of them always wear gloves. Viago waited until they caught their breath before he continued speaking. “We can get out of this, but we have to be careful. You stay right here, I’m going to find a way to get rid of the body. Let no one but me in, understood?”
Guinevere nodded, mute as she tried to keep focus on Viago. He let them go, pausing a moment before ducking out of the room. After a beat, Guinevere rushed to the door, locking it behind him. They leaned against it, waiting for Viago to return as they focused on steadying their breathing.
Coming here was a stupid idea. When Annunziato invited them back, just for a little chat with “House de Riva’s best assassin” they should have known better. It was pointless, all he did was condescend to them. Talk about what they were “trained for”. The whole thing made their skin crawl. Why had they even come? To prove a point? They supposed they had in the end.
Annunziato was dead, and they weren’t.
A soft knock on the door snapped Guinevere out of her thoughts. “Guinevere, let me in.”
She fumbled with the latch a moment before cracking the door. Viago slithered inside, and Guinevere shut the door behind him.
“There’s a laundry chute in a nearby room. I need you to help me carry the body there so we can drop it down. Can you do that, Guinevere?” Viago asked. They nodded, still shaking. “Guinevere. Tell me you can handle this.”
“I can. I can handle it,” she said, taking a deep breath.
The two of them moved to Annunziato’s body, Viago taking the arms and Guinevere taking the legs. They shuffled to the door, fumbling with it a little before stepping into the hall. Viago took the lead, guiding them to a small closet and shoving them and the corpse inside. After some struggle, they wedged the body halfway into the chute, taking the chance to pause. The shaft wasn’t very wide, but it would fit Annunziato’s body.
Viago sighed, taking a moment to listen for movement in the corridor before turning to Guinevere. “Ten minutes. Annunziato has a time piece in his office you can use to track the time. I’m going to climb down the chute after the body. After ten minutes, I want you to storm out of here. Make as big of a scene as you can. I’ll catch up with you and we’ll leave together. Understood?”
“Yes, I understand,” they said, worrying their lip.
“Use this time to collect yourself and clean up any signs of what happened in his office. Be careful.” With a final heave, the two dropped the body down the chute, and Viago climbed in after it. Bracing himself against the walls, he began his descent. Guinevere, meanwhile, slipped from the room and ducked back into Annunziato’s office.
She checked the clock, starting a count in her head. Pacing the office, they checked for anything out of place, specks of blood, any signs of dragging. After some straightening of the desk and the items on it, Guinevere was satisfied. Five minutes. They continued to pace, biting their nails.
Time seemed to inch by.
Was Viago safe? Had he been caught in the chute? Or with the body? Where was he putting the body? What would happen if he were caught? If Viago died because he was helping them…
Seven minutes.
Guinevere hated this house. She was rarely there when in House Leverone, it wasn’t like now where she lived with Viago. Every now and then she would have to come visit, have to come see Annunziato and endure his leering and comments. Otherwise, she was in her apartment or in that small attic next to the docks that led to the river. It always reeked of fish. She wondered if the rest of the building was used to store fish from the coast. Being asked to visit Leverone Manor was never a good thing. Guinevere should have known better than to come here. Even with Viago. When Annunziato said Viago would have to wait outside, they should have just left. There was no point in having entertained this, and now she and Viago were in trouble.
Ten minutes.
Guinevere launched towards the door, but immediately slowed. They had a performance to put on. That they were good at, it was what they were trained for.
Closing their eyes, they tried to muster their rage. It wasn’t as hard as they thought it would be. They summoned up every moment Annunziato talked down to them, every moment from their training, the memory of every would-be-friend that died at their blade or someone else’s, and every bit of resentment that had built up over twelve years of training and jobs they hated.
Guinevere flipped the latch and flung the doors open. They banged against the walls, slamming shut behind her as she stomped down the hallway. She shrieked, punching the wall as she rounded the corner.
Servants were poking their heads out of different rooms or pausing in their work as Guinevere stormed through the manor. They raged and ranted the entire way down, cursing Annunziato’s name and House Leverone. They stopped at one point to deploy one of their boot blades, using it to kick a bannister and drive deep gouges into the wood. That blade would need replacing, but shrieking and kicking the bannister was almost cathartic.
“That disgusting, washed-up, pervert!” they screamed, crossing the threshold into the entryway. They grabbed a nearby vase and hurled it at the wall. “How dare he invite me here and treat me like some object he can play with however he pleases! Like I’m still—” she flipped the table the vase had rested on “—stuck in his miserable, pathetic excuse of a Crow House.”
Viago swept into the room, expression stormy. “Stop vandalising Leverone House, Guinevere, they don’t need your help in looking mismanaged.”
He grabbed Guinevere by the elbow, and they took another chance to kick the wall before letting Viago drag them away, hissing and spitting. They didn’t stop raging until Viago loaded them into a carriage, asking them to take the pair to the docks as soon as possible.
As Guinevere came down from the high of her anger, she let out a strangled sob. In seconds they had broken down into wet, snotty sobs, shaking as the Leverone manor began to vanish into the distance. Viago said nothing, letting them sob beside him as he kept watch for pursuers.
Neither one spoke as they arrived safely at the docks and boarded Viago’s boat. The crew set them off, and Viago led Guinevere to his quarters. Each collapsed into a chair, exhausted for different reasons. Viago looked slightly dishevelled, with a faint sheen of sweat on his face. Guinevere didn’t want to imagine what they looked like.
“I have a contract for a job in Orlais at home. It’s not the usual process, obviously, and the job is a little simple for you, but it will see you safely out of Antiva until this blows over. The moment we reach Salle I want you to clean up, pack your things, and then leave for Orlais. I will make sure this isn’t attributed to you, Guinevere.”
“Thank you,” they murmured, rubbing their eyes.
The pair sat in silence for several minutes, collecting themselves. Finally, Guinevere spoke up. “The body, what did you do with it?”
“I propped it up in his steam bathhouse.”
Never had Guinevere been so throughly, completely, and utterly fucked. That was probably an exaggeration, but Viago was there when Annunziato died and gotten them safely out of that scrape. Unfortunately, Viago was at the manor and Guinevere was far too close for comfort to failing this job.
She’d been sloppy, a rarity for her. She had apparently missed the detail where her target’s personal bodyguard liked to watch whenever his client took someone to bed. Which, really, had been rather inconvenient for Guinevere, who was in the middle of slitting her target’s throat when the guard came in expecting to see her in a much different position. He had caught her off guard, and that was the only reason he had managed to hit her. Maybe next time she needed to seduce some rich fart with a bodyguard she would just poison her lips.
Staggering down the blessedly empty streets, Guinevere tried to fight through the brain fog and recall the path to the De Riva manor. Their side was sticky with blood, seeping through their fingers and running down their gown. It had been a nice gown, too, now ruined.
Did they turn left here? Or was it further down the street…
Their head spun, vision blurry. Maybe they should climb to the rooftops. The streets were blessedly empty for now, but they couldn’t trust them to stay that way. They paused, scanning the wall in front of them. It was hard to focus, their thoughts trailing off into unrelated trains of thought. It was several minutes before they picked out good handholds. Approaching the wall to start their ascent, Guinevere frantically wiped their bloody hands off of on their gown. It only smeared their blood more and something scratched at the back of their mind. It was so much blood.
Fumbling, they began to climb. It was a struggle, their hands constantly slipping and their coordination lacking. They were only a few feet off the ground, trying to settle their feet on the top ledge of a window frame when their hands slipped. Their stomach dropped as they failed to regain their balance, falling. It felt like they blinked and were on the ground, head cracking against the stones and their breath knocked out of them.
Black tinged the edges of their vision. That wasn’t good. Gasping for air, Guinevere tried to push herself up. She mustered the strength to roll onto her hands and knees, but her vision faded out when she tried to push up to stand. When she came back to consciousness, she was face down on the cobblestones. Groaning, she started to drag herself to the wall, looking for support to get up.
It was slow going. Guinevere’s vision faded in and out, and they could barely breathe. Their whole body felt heavy, each movement a struggle. Finally, finally, they reached the wall of the building. They tried to claw their way up the side so they could stand, but could barely manage to lift their head.
Footsteps rushed down the street, the sound distant.
They hoped whoever it wouldn’t see them. Maker, this would reflect poorly on House de Riva. On Viago.
“Guinevere!” The footsteps stopped, the voice sounding miles away. It was familiar. “Guinevere!”
Moaning in pain, Guinevere blinked at the shape looming over her as it rolled her over. She knew that sour expression.
“Hello, Vi.” Guinevere murmured, and the world faded away.
Everything hurt, and Guinevere was certain she had died. Could you hurt in death? It didn’t matter, that was the only explanation for how much pain they were in.
“I hope I can trust your discretion in this, Ada,” Viago said. Guinevere frowned. That wasn’t right, if they were dead, then Viago couldn’t also be dead. That didn’t make sense.
“Of course, sir,” someone, Ada, responded. Footsteps moved away, and there was a pause before Viago sighed loudly. Guinevere heard him move closer to them and the creak of a chair. He had probably sat down.
Shifting, Guinevere opened their eyes and looked around to place where they were. They recognised the ceiling immediately. They had requested it be painted to look like the sky and the rays of the stylised golden sun in the centre of it stretched above their head.
“Thank the Maker, I’m not dead,” they croaked, and Viago sat up.
“You should be thanking me.”
“Thank Viago, I’m not dead,” they said, smiling a little as they sat up, propping themself against the headboard. “How long was I asleep?”
“A day. This is probably about the time I found you last night,” Viago said. He stood, tossing Guinevere a pair of gloves. I’ll have the staff bring you food. Get some rest.”
Viago started out and Guinevere lurched forward, wincing as her head spun. “Viago, wait!”
He paused, turning slightly to look back at them.
“How did you know? That I was in trouble, I mean.”
There was a long pause, during which Viago looked slightly pained.
“You took too long,” he finally said. “A job like this should have taken you half that time. The only explanation would have been that you were in trouble.”
“Ah,” Guinevere said, hesitating. “Thank you.”
“Think nothing of it,” he said and stepped out of the room.
They had let him down. Somehow, Viago’s disappointment hurt worse than anything else. He had relied on them, trusted them, brought them into Treviso because he believed that Guinevere would have the best interests of the Crows and Antiva in mind in the face of invasion. Instead? They had embarrassed him. Not just embarrassed him, but blatantly went against his orders in front all the Talons and Houses.
Guinevere couldn’t even focus on what Varric and Lace were saying to them. The two were chatting away about their mission and goals, and Guinevere knew it was important, but couldn’t pull herself from her thoughts long enough to parse the words. This was a contract. A more polite way to say that she was temporarily banished from Antiva until the ripples of her prison break dissipated.
They had never been more ashamed in their life. The worst part was knowing why they got away with it. It wasn’t because they were a particularly good assassin or expected to succeed Viago should the need arise. It was because, despite how he acted, despite the distance both tried to keep, he cared. How had they let this happen? When had it happened?
Wiping at her eyes, Guinevere turned. Treviso was fading into the distance as Varric and Lace led their small party west. They strained their eyes, trying to pick out the Cantori Diamond in the cluster of buildings. When they returned, if they returned, they would make this up to Viago. They would never fail him like this again.