• Гідрологія і Гідрометрія
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• Товарознавство продовольчих товарів

Contents 7 страница

Down on the stage, Maferath waved his arms in outrage, the lone force of reason as Andraste and Shartan flirted and teased and completely ignored the war with Tevinter. “When rulers to their hearts become a slave, ignoring duty to cavort with elves, does any heart so noble and so brave not see the need to take the fight themselves?”

“Am I to understand,” Celene said without looking over, “that Maferath will be the hero making the necessary sacrifice by betraying Andraste?”

“Well, in this version of the play, Andraste seems to have taken an elven lover and forgotten her duty, Your Majesty.” Remache paused. “Still, I wouldn’t want to spoil the ending.”

“I know one ending. The playwright will be executed,” Celene said. “Possibly the theater owner as well.”

“To be fair,” Duke Remache said, “this last-minute change to the script was something of a surprise to the theater owner, as was the disappearance of her son … though I assume the lad will be found safely later tonight.”

“And what evidence will I find leading back to you, Remache?”

“None, Your Radiance, though I will make lavish donations to the Chantry in apology for a play I sponsored being undermined by some sick heretic.”

Celene stood. “Tell Grand Duke Maferath that I seem to have lost a wager on whether he was literate.”

Ser Michel opened the door, staring daggers at Remache, and Celene left, ignoring the murmurs from the crowd below.

She kept herself steady until Michel closed the door behind her. Then, when she was alone but for Michel and her servants in the darkened hallway, she lowered her head and took a deep breath.

They knew. Damn them all, they knew.

It was still possible that it was merely meant as metaphor, an attack upon Celene for letting elves into the markets and the university. But she did not think so. Duke Remache had said “an elven lover” very specifically, and such a thing, even through the metaphor of the stage, was not said in the Game unless one was certain.

Briala, the one part of her life she had kept as her own these many years, was being used to attack her. Gaspard and his thugs would take away that one comfort, the woman she loved, so that he could get the damned war he wanted.

“You have used your throne to defend the arts and scholarly sciences for so long,” a soft voice came from the shadows. “It seems so cruel for Gaspard to use them against you now.”

Celene looked over at the Divine’s red-haired representative, conspicuous with her Fereldan features and her unmasked face. “The theaters have always been fickle, Leliana. And I do not believe that the university has turned.” She looked at Michel. “Get the other servants and find out what they have heard. We are leaving.”

“Majesty.” Michel nodded and stalked off with the rest of her servants in tow, and Celene went into the shadows where Leliana stood.

She held up a tightly bound scroll. “Several of the professors have been asked to write papers about the elves. One will be saying that their large ears mark them as similar to rabbits, which means that they are simple prey animals, relying upon base instinct for survival and not to be trusted. Another will claim that anyone fornicating with an elf is insulting the Maker, as one who lies with animals.”

Twenty years of fighting to bring an empire of savages the grace and culture it needed to remain the greatest country in the world, and now the very people she had sought to help mocked her, threatened her with death, and played up her battle with Gaspard for the amusement of the commoners. Twenty years of relative peace, enlightenment, and safety for Orlais would be cast aside because playwrights and scholars could snidely reduce it to the foolishness of a love-struck girl cavorting with an elf.

Celene shut her eyes. “And what does the Divine think about this?”

Leliana smiled. “The Divine has never had a very high opinion of the theater, Your Radiance.” At Celene’s silence, the Divine’s representative sighed. “The elves are the children of the Maker, just as we are, and just as deserving of His grace.”

“But the Divine will not say that,” Celene guessed.

Leliana looked away. She had been trained as a bard, so every movement she made was likely deliberate, but Celene thought that her discomfort was genuine. “I have … been comrade-in-arms with elves. I would not see them harmed. But you did not ask for her support in that matter.” She looked back at Celene. “You asked for her support calming the templars and the mages.”

“Indeed.” Celene nodded. “And will she give that support?”

Leliana let out a breath. “She will,” she said, nodding slowly, “but in return, she needs to know that this matter with the elves is under control.”

Celene felt her heart break inside her, for all that she had known within moments how the conversation would go. She breathed a tiny sigh, and then said, “Of course. I could hardly ask the Divine to keep her affairs in order were I not willing to do the same myself. I hope you enjoy the coming ball in Justinia’s honor. I fear I will not be able to attend in person.”

“The Divine understands,” Leliana said, and in a soft, sad voice, added, “Walk with the Maker’s blessing.”

“Majesty!”

Celene looked up sharply and took a steadying breath as she pulled herself upright. It was Ser Michel, with Celene’s entourage close behind him. The two servants she had sent out to investigate earlier looked disheveled. One of them had had her makeup smeared across her jaw and mouth, as though she had been slapped. The other had streaks just below her half-mask, as though she had been crying.

“What have you found?” she asked, glancing into the shadows. Leliana had disappeared.

“As you saw in that play,” he said, grimacing, “the crowd is saying that you are too … lenient with the elves.” Celene waved in irritation, and he went on. “They claim that you tax them less, that you wish to let them run free from our laws. They say that you pity them, and some were speculating that you might have made secret deals with the Dalish to strip nobles of their lands and return the Dales to the elves. There is even talk about your Briala.” Michel looked at the wall. “They say she is, ah, that the two of you are…”

“The word is lover, Michel.”

“Yes, Majesty. That is what they are saying.” Michel’s fists were clenched at his sides. “If you like, I would be happy to return to the lobby and make it clear that such talk is unacceptable.”

Celene smiled and straightened. The servants needed to see her strength now. “No. That would silence one voice and give rise to a hundred whispers in its place. If the people fear that I am softhearted for the elves, it will take action to disabuse them of the notion.”

There were countless options, but she had discarded all but a few immediately. New trade restrictions, or revoking her request to the university to admit the elven scholar … those actions would convince a few, but they would not sweep across the empire, leaving no doubt of Celene’s strength.

For that, only one thing would suffice. She had known it while talking with Leliana, and in her mind, she begged forgiveness for the pain she knew Briala would feel. But there was no other way.

“Gather our forces. We march on Halamshiral.”

“Empress?”

“I have a rebellion to crush.”

Thren had learned a lot from the thieves in the weeks since the bastard shemlen had killed his friend Lemet.

First, he’d learned that most of the laws he feared so much could be walked around with laughable ease. Elves in Halamshiral were forbidden to carry any blade longer than the palm of their hand, but half of the elves in the thieves’ guild wore blades at their hips for all to see, a dare to any guardsman with the courage to start a fight.

Second, he’d learned that his job at the tannery put him in high regard. With the leather scraps he stole, he could make slings for rebels who otherwise had nothing. Arrows and bolts could be hard to come by, the thieves told Thren, but even the damned shems couldn’t keep the elves from getting their hands on rocks. What was more, when the rebels came to Thren with leather skins, he showed them how to boil them and shape them into armored plates and greaves. They weren’t pretty, but they might turn away a blade or slow down an arrow.

Third, he’d learned, much to his own surprise, that he really liked killing humans.

The wagon had reached the traders’ square just past sundown. It was a marketplace used mostly by craftsmen and merchants hauling food, not as fancy as the one in the protected upper part of Halamshiral, but several steps cleaner and prettier than the one in the slums where the elves lived. Simple sheets of canvas were hung to make stalls around the square itself, painted brightly with dragons and chevaliers, and in the middle of the square a raised platform gave bards or other performers a good place to earn a few coins.

The human guards had searched the wagon, grunting, then warned the driver to be quick about unloading his goods. The filthy elves had been thieving more as of late, they said, and even the good parts of the city weren’t safe.

Thren watched and listened from a rooftop across the square, then passed a signal to the runner Lemet had died to protect. The child shot Thren a smirk, then scampered off.

Thren counted to one hundred, then stood. He dropped a stone into the sling, spun the leather strap at the wrist, and let it fly. The stone hurtled across the square, lost to view. Thren saw the guard stumble back, clutching at the shoulder of his chainmail as the clank of stone on metal carried back to Thren’s ears.

More slung stones followed, from all over the square. Merchants ran screaming as the stones fell like hail, rattling and clacking on cobblestones and armor and flesh, and the guards spun, raising crossbows and squinting in the twilight for targets. The horses bucked and screamed, and their driver fought to keep them from bolting. Thren spun his sling and loosed another stone, then swore. He’d only been practicing for a few weeks now, but he could tell as soon as it left his hand that it would go wide.

A sharp buzz snapped past Thren’s ear, and he felt the wind as a bolt hissed past his face, cracking into the wall of the building behind him. A few weeks ago, that would have had Thren cowering on the ground in terror. Tonight, he bared his teeth with a feral grin. A moment later, the guard who had fired at him fell to his knees, bleeding from the face.

The square was almost empty. The guards were on the ground, dazed if not dead, and it would be a few precious minutes before reinforcements arrived. One of the thieves yelled out a command, and Thren swung over the side of the rooftop, then dropped to the ground. He landed awkwardly, his ankle rolling under him as he landed. Swearing, he scrambled back to his feet and kept moving with the rest.

He tucked his sling back into his belt and pulled his knife free as he and the other thieves strode boldly into the square.

“Please! Please, I have a family!” A merchant had dropped to his knees, his head bloody, and scrambled out of the way as Thren approached. Thren cuffed him on the head, grinned at one of the other elves, and kept going.

The guard who’d fired a bolt at him was still on his knees, shaking his head. Thren walked up behind the man, grabbed him by the shoulder, and slid his dagger up under the jaw and across the man’s throat. The guard fell, gurgling and clutching at his throat.

He’d hesitated, the first time he’d killed a guard like that. The guard had gotten his own knife out, and one of the more experienced thieves had saved Thren’s life, then jeered him loudly for the rest of the evening. The second time, Thren had lunged in with the mad awkward energy of a young man in a woman’s bed for the first time, and he’d ended up stabbing the guard up under the ear. It had taken the poor bastard minutes to die, and Thren had been too nervous to retrieve his dagger until the man stopped moving.

The third time, though, Thren had gotten it right, and in the weeks since, many more had followed. One smooth motion, not jerky, not too fast, was all it took to make the human guard who’d sneered at the elves for so long a corpse on the ground.

Elves were already beating the wagon driver, who was curled up on the ground. Thren ignored them and joined the ones checking the wagon.

“Food and cooking pots, most of it,” said one of them as Thren approached. “Some lamp oil.”

Thren nodded. Lamp oil would burn, and cooking pots could make weapons.

“What do we take?” asked another one. “No time to get all of it.”

Thren looked at the horses, which were whinnying in alarm and pulling at their harnesses. “We take it all. Who here can drive a wagon?” At the silence, Thren frowned, then turned to the elves beating the driver. “Get him on his feet!”

They groused but did as Thren ordered, pulling the wagon driver up. He had a bloody nose and stood in a crouch, curled around himself in pain, but nothing looked broken.

“You want to live, shem?” he asked, keeping his voice hard. “Drive the wagon where we tell you, and you’ll walk out alive.”

The man took a breath and coughed. “What about the horses?” he asked.

Thren laughed. It came out louder than he’d intended. The heat of the fight was still on him. “You’re not really in a good place to bargain, human.”

The driver took another breath, wincing. “No, I know. But you’re not going to kill the horses, right? You’ll treat them well?”

Thren looked at the other elves, who shrugged. “We had no plans to hurt them.”

“All right,” said the driver, and limped to the wagon. Thren waved to the rest of the thieves, and they grabbed what they could and ran. Thren and a few others joined the wagon driver and led him back into the slums. The square behind them was silent but for the groans of the merchants they’d left alive.

At Thren’s orders, the driver pushed the horses. They reached the barricade that the elves had set up around their little corner of Halamshiral, and with a great shout, the elves pulled aside tables and planks of wood along one wall so that the wagon could pass.

The horses whinnied in alarm at the sharp planks that jutted from the side of the barricade, bits of garbage turned into a makeshift wall against the humans, and the driver barked at them and cracked the reins, then shot Thren an apologetic look. Thren ignored him.

The elven slums had changed in the past few weeks. Every block had a building or two that was blackened from a punitive visit from the guards. The markets had boarded their doors, and instead of horses and cooking food, the slums now smelled of smoke.

But for all that, Thren saw happiness, too. An elven girl ran alongside the wagon for a moment, and one of the thieves tossed her a stolen apple. When the humans had decided when and how the elves ate, that girl might have starved. Now, when the humans cut off supplies as a punitive measure, the elves fought for every bite … and they ate better.

The headquarters for the elven rebellion was the tavern where Thren and Lemet had gone drinking on that fateful night. Now, most of the tables had been taken out back and chopped up for wooden shields, and the sawdust on the floor was stained with blood from injured elves who lay on pallets near the old bar. On one wall, the elves had drawn a map of the city in charcoal, noting possible targets, escape routes, and places to hide. Thren hopped down from the wagon, wincing at the ankle he’d twisted in the fight, and left the others to unload it. Jinette, still wearing her server’s apron, waved him over, her lips pursed with nervous tension.

“Be careful,” Jinette said, wiping her hands nervously on her server’s apron as Thren came inside. “They’re dangerous.”

Thren didn’t need to be told. The elven woman sitting on the bar before him wore better armor than he’d ever seen. It was leather, but blue as the Waking Sea and trimmed with silver studs, and she moved as if it weighed no more than linen. The bow slung over her shoulder was made from a wood he didn’t recognize, with a fine whorled pattern along the curve that reminded Thren of leaves, and the daggers at her waist shone with the blue-white glitter of silverite. There was more coin hanging from that elf than Thren had made in his entire life.

But the elven man next to her was even more terrifying. His cloak was simple, as were his breeches and tunic, and his feet were bare. He could have been a beggar, except for the glowing staff he held, and the intricate pattern of tattoos that marked his face. The staff marked him as a mage, not safely locked away in a Circle tower but standing right in the warehouse with no templars to stop him from doing whatever he wanted. The tattoos marked him as a legend.

“Hahren,” Thren said haltingly, remembering the old words, “honored elder. Have you come to help us fight for freedom?”

“We have come,” said the elven woman, “to stop you from getting yourselves killed.”

* * *

Empress Celene’s forces moved toward Halamshiral at a grueling pace. They had crossed the Waking Sea by ship, then made their way through Lydes. It meant that Duke Remache’s servants would have a full view to report back to their master, and through him, to Gaspard, but there was no helping it.

And in truth, she did not want to help it. Gaspard had driven her to this, thinking himself clever in forcing the Empress of Orlais to crush a rebellion and prove that she was not to be trifled with. Let the nobles see what she would do once spurred to action, and let them never again mistake reluctance for war with inability to safeguard the empire.

While her forces—a few hundred horses, twice that in footmen, and two-score chevaliers—rode or marched, Celene sat in the royal coach, reading intelligence reports and wishing she could be riding. She wore a gown fit for travel, and her mask lay on the seat beside her, to be worn if she left the coach.

Riding would obviously be far more uncomfortable. Though Celene spent time on horseback regularly, a gentle ride in the park or a few hours hunting were nothing compared to spending all day in the saddle, and she knew it.

But in the saddle, she would simply be riding. She would not spend all day reading reports. How many blocks of the slums had the elves taken? How many guards were dead? How many nobles had changed their plans because of this threat to the city?

In the coach, she had nothing else to do but read, give orders, and wait.

Ser Michel was inside with her, impassive as she glared at the pages.

“News, Majesty?” he asked as she crumpled a note into a ball.

“Nothing new, Michel.” The elves had taken a few more blocks. They now encroached into streets where the poorer humans lived, and they had driven out those poor peasants with whatever they could carry. Elves in Lydes were reportedly fleeing their city to reach the freedom of Halamshiral, and the rebels in Halamshiral had left notes demanding that Lord Mainserai be given to them for justice. Halamshiral’s guard forces, often stripped bare to deal with more troubling areas, requested aid. “How long?”

Michel glanced out the window, squinting. “If we keep this pace, with minimal rest, less than a day. Though that has us arriving at Halamshiral tired.”

“They are elves, Michel. Their armor is scavenged from scrap metal and leather, and they are throwing rocks at the guards. This will be an easy enough battle, provided we arrive soon.”

He nodded without speaking, and Celene saw him frown. He looked more puzzled than concerned, which was a relief. She trusted Michel’s judgment in all matters of war, and if he were worried, she would be as well.

“Do you disagree, Michel?”

“No. Your pardon, Majesty.” He shook his head. “I wonder at their foolishness. To sneak out after curfew is one thing. To kill guards and raise barricades … what could they have been thinking?”

“They were hungry and afraid.” Celene shrugged. “Some nobles are cruel to the poor creatures without need. Even a dog will learn to bite if kicked enough.”

Michel raised an eyebrow. “You almost sound sorry for them.”

She smiled sadly. “I had hoped to solve this in a different way, Michel. The elves belong to this empire. They have their place in it, as surely as you or I, and it is my duty before the Maker to provide them guidance, safety, and comfort. What I do now, I do with a heavy heart.” She looked to him curiously. “And you?”

His expression didn’t change. “They have threatened your rule. I would sooner put down a few hundred knife-ears rather than allow Gaspard to endanger the lives of men.”

“I have never seen such anger from you before, Michel.” Something in her breast twinged, loyalty to Briala, for all that she knew her lover would be brokenhearted at what Celene would have to do at Halamshiral. She thought of their last talk before Briala had left, of the passion in her lover’s voice. “And it is unworthy of you, I think. The elves are peasants. We can no more appreciate the joys and hardships of their lives than they could ours. In their minds, we spend all day eating rare delicacies, and all night at grand balls.”

Michel chuckled at that. “That is likely true, Majesty.”

“They have not insulted you with this rebellion. You need bear them no anger.”

“I know, Majesty. But as I said … they rebelled against you. Breaking a law, I can understand, even if all law is ultimately your law. But directly moving against you…” He shrugged. “I cannot understand a peasant, elf or human, willingly doing that. And I must react. If I cannot do that, then how can I claim to be your champion?”

Celene shook her head. “You will have your chance, Michel. I pray that we succeed.”

They sat in silence, and Celene thought that tonight, again, she would sleep alone. But Gaspard would sleep with fear as his companion. Rebels though they might be, the elves were Orlesians, and their deaths demanded recompense.

Gaspard would pay.

* * *

Lord Mainserai’s home in the city was almost a palace, a great estate set behind stone walls and spiked iron gates.

As the half-moon rose, Briala watched the estate from the shadows of the trees in a nearby park. The windows were dark, and the gates had been closed for more than an hour now, any visitors having long since departed. The smoke coming from the many chimneys had largely tapered off, except for one end of the house that Briala had picked out as likely being the kitchens.

A few servants might be up and about, still, working in the kitchen or laundering linens for tomorrow, but most of the house had gone to bed.

Felassan leaned against a tree beside her, calm as always. The apparent leader of the rebellion, Thren, paced nervously behind them.

“You are certain that this is the way?” he asked for the third time.

“The only way,” Briala said, trying to keep her voice calm. “Did you think you could burn buildings and kill guards with impunity?”

“No, but—”

“The empress will send the chevaliers into the slums and burn everything inside your barricades to the ground,” Felassan said, still leaning against the tree. “That is, generally speaking, what empresses do when someone throws up a barricade and announces that they’re rebelling.”

“So if you want justice,” Briala continued, “if you want Mainserai dead, then it needs to happen now, while the rebels cause a distraction across the city. And once he is dead, then you need to stay quiet. The guards need to see the elves behaving themselves perfectly tomorrow morning. No more raids, no more thrown stones, nothing but a polite smile and eyes down. Do you understand?”

“But…” In the darkness, Thren was just a gray blur of motion, but she could smell his sweat. “Do you think they’ll just find his body and then shrug? What if they ride into the slums and demand answers?”

“They almost certainly will,” Felassan said.

“And nobody will have seen anything,” Briala added.

Thren stopped pacing and turned to them. “What if they kill elves in retribution?”

“They almost certainly will,” Felassan said again.

“And you will keep your eyes down and your mouths shut,” Briala said.

“But … but … you’re Dalish!” Thren turned to Felassan desperately. “Your people could reclaim Halamshiral for the elves!”

“Yes. Someday.” Felassan pushed himself off from the tree. “But not today. Today, you kill a noble and then hope all the other nobles think he was too great an ass to be worth avenging.”

“You don’t understand!” Thren’s voice rose in his anger. “People joined this cause because I told them about Lemet! Because of me! Now you’re saying that the best we can hope for is to have a few homes burned, a few elves killed?”

“I know it’s not what you wanted to hear,” Briala said, and Thren turned on her.

“Shut up! Don’t walk up in your fancy armor and your bath-scented skin and act like you know what we’ve been through!” He took a ragged breath and stalked away.

Briala let him go. When he was gone, she let out a slow breath and rolled the tension out of her shoulders.

“Well, I thought that went well. How about you, da’len?” Felassan asked behind her.

“He’s right.” Briala shrugged, watching the moon clear the rooftops. “I grew up serving Celene. However I was treated, it was more gently than if I’d been in the alienage. Maker’s breath, I live in the palace in Val Royeaux.”

“And it’s just been one giant holiday for you, hasn’t it?” Felassan’s hand came to rest on her shoulder. “Ah, wait, no, you spend all your time spying for the empress and urging her to help these elves in a hundred ways they will never notice.”

Briala nodded without answering. The words were true, but it didn’t tighten the knots in her stomach.

“Or … ah.” Felassan chuckled. The hand on her shoulder tightened, pulling her around. In the moonlight, his eyes were deeper spots of black. “You’re not sure which it is, are you? Are you really doing this to help save elven lives, or are you doing it to protect your empress?”

“The two are inseparable,” Briala said without hesitation. “I know that Gaspard would not be gentle with the elves, and I cannot put words in his ear.” She unslung her bow and stepped out from the trees, Felassan beside her. “This is the only way.”

Felassan grinned. “Well, good. Let’s stop moping and go kill a noble, then.”

Ahead of them, at the edge of the lawn, Thren waited. Briala looked at him, the elven crusader fighting for his dead friend, and asked, “Could the Dalish help these people?”

Felassan was silent for a long moment. “I doubt we’ll ever know,” he finally said.

“Why not?”

“Because,” Felassan said, “the Dalish will never see the point.”

“Are you ready?” Thren called over, forestalling any other question Briala might have asked.

“If you are.” Briala drew an arrow from her quiver. “Let us win justice for your people.”

Felassan crossed the road, his steps even and unhurried, and came to the stone wall of Lord Mainserai’s estate. It was twelve feet high, with foot-long iron spikes jutting out and down to deter would-be thieves, along with shards of broken glass set at the top of the wall.

Felassan laid a hand to the stone wall, closed his eyes, and let out a long breath.

A rumble started in Briala’s belly and worked its way to her ears, and they popped as the stones of Lord Mainserai’s wall shifted. The metal spikes shrieked, and loose rocks shot out from stonework with sharp cracks. The wall around Felassan sagged, as though it were a snow fort melting in the spring sun, and his hand glowed with pale green light.

Briala winced as one of the spikes, warped by the twisting of the rock wall beneath it, tore away and clanged to the ground. “I thought this would be quieter.”

“You thought wrenching metal and stone apart would be quieter? Really?” Felassan pulled his hand away. As dogs began barking all through the neighborhood, he added, “Shall we depart?”

Where he had cast his spell, the wall had sunk, until it formed a canyon just a few feet high. All around it, stone was stretched, the iron spikes jutting at irregular angles like some great monster’s teeth. Briala stepped gingerly over the gap, her bow raised.

Inside, the lawn was neatly trimmed, and hedges had been sculpted into the shape of dragons and griffons and other beasts. Past the lawn, the manor itself was elaborate and overwrought, its clean white columns lit magically to display bronze sculptures of Emperor Drakon fighting darkspawn. With Thren and Felassan behind her, Briala crept into the shadow of a majestic wyvern, and then darted across the lawn to take refuge beneath a griffon’s outstretched wings.

“Who’s there?” came a cry from near the house. Briala found the guard as he stepped out, looking at the wall in confusion. “What in the Maker’s name?”

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