- For the real-world novel written by Mary Kirby, see Dragon Age: Hard in Hightown.
Hard in Hightown
Hard in Hightown, published in 9:33 Dragon, is Varric Tethras' breakthrough literary work. It features a clash between a secretive group of agents of the Divine with a mysterious organization known as the Executors over a mysterious artifact, with a weary member of the Kirkwall City Guard, Donnen Brennokovic, caught between the fronts.
Chapters were published irregularly, due to the unrest in Kirkwall at the time. Hard in Hightown has been the best-selling book in five nations since 9:36 Dragon, eventually outselling Brother Ferdinand Genitivi's In Pursuit of Knowledge: The Travels of a Chantry Scholar to become the widest-read book in Thedas outside of the Tevinter Imperium.[1] A sequel, named Hard in Hightown 2: Siege Harder, is currently in the making.
Chapters 1 - 3[]
They say coin never sleeps, but anyone who’s walked the patrol of Hightown Market at midnight might disagree. The pickpockets and confidence men head to the taverns at dusk, the dwarven businessmen and nobles go back to their tiny palaces to fret over the ways they got cheated, and the market falls silent.
Donnen Brennokovic knew every angle of the market with his eyes closed. Twenty years of patrols had etched it into him so that he walked that beat even in his dreams. The recruit, Jevlan, was another story. The ring of steel striking stone told Donnen that the kid had stumbled into a column again. His new armor would be full of dents by sunrise.
“Torches would make this easier.” The sound of Jevlan hauling himself off the pavement was like a tinker’s cart crashing.
“Torches make you night-blind. You’ll adjust.” Donnen crossed the square to help the kid to his feet. A breeze scurried across the plaza, sending the banners and pennants shivering and carrying an old, familiar scent. Donnen stopped in his tracks. “Something’s wrong.” His voice was low, warning. He peered into the dark, up at the mezzanine just above them. “Follow me. Be ready for trouble.”
The two guards climbed the dark stairs and there, in a puddle of shadow, found the body. Gold-trimmed satin glittered through the blood.
“Get the captain,” Donnen sighed. “We’ve got a dead magistrate.”
Magistrate Dunwald’s butler had the air of a man who had never risen before dawn in his life. He stared down his nose at Donnen Brennokovic and his partner, Jevlan, as if he were on some lofty balcony above them instead of standing in the parlor in his dressing gown.
“The magistrate is indisposed. This can wait until a reasonable hour.” He gestured for the guards to see themselves out.
“The magistrate is dead,” Donnen corrected him. “Wake the household.”
As the butler left, Jevlan shifted uneasily in his new armor. “Shouldn’t the captain be here?”
“You want to go back to the barracks, be my guest,” Donnen said with a shrug, only half-listening as he studied the collection displayed in the room. A dozen ancient swords lay nestled in display cases, protected from dust and prying fingers. He moved to lift the lid of the nearest one. Jevlan started to protest, but then the doors opened.
She had eyes the color of topaz and dark hair that fell across her brow like sword strokes. She strolled into the parlor with such dignified elegance that Donnen didn’t realize for several minutes that she was clad in a housecoat and not a ball gown.
“You have news about my husband? What’s Seamus done this time, forget to pay his bill at the Rose?” She seated herself and indicated the guards do the same. Donnen nodded at the recruit to speak up.
Jevlan started, “No, Lady Dunwald, actually—“
She interrupted him with a wave. “Marielle, please.”
“Lady Marielle, your husband has been murdered,” Donnen took over for the flustered recruit. “When did you see him last?”
Marielle started at him, her jewel-colored eyes wide, and her voice cracked on, “Murdered? Seamus?” But a heartbeat, maybe two, passed, and she again became the perfect picture of noble grace. “I saw him at dinner,” she answered in a tone anyone might use to comment on the weather. “He left before dusk. He said he was going to play Wicked Grace with the Comte de Favre.”
“Do you know of anyone who might have wanted him dead?” Jevlan asked softly.
“People want magistrates dead on principle.” She gave a wry smile, but her voice grew pained. “Criminals. Political rivals. Even people in his district who disagree with him.” She drifted off, lost in thought, and then turned to Donnen, eyes blazing. “A week ago, a letter came. Vague threats. I thought it was nothing, but it upset Seamus.”
“Who sent it?” Donnen asked.
“It wasn’t signed. But the seal was six crossed swords.”
For the second time in what was becoming a very long night, Donnen Brennokovic and his partner, Jevlan, found themselves knocking on a nobleman's door. It was still hours before dawn, the sky turning grey around the edges. The steel of Donnen's gauntlets clanged against the door. Once. Twice. No answer. He sighed looking up at the dark windows of the mansion. He was getting too old for this shit.
"Maybe he's out," Jevlan offered. The recruit was nervous. In the guard a week and barely able to walk through Hightown, too green for a murder case.
"He's hiding. Look up." Donnen pointed. "He's shuttered all the windows. There hasn't been a storm in months." He pounded on the door again, louder.
"We should get the captain." Jevlan shifted and squirmed under his heavy shoulder plates. Donnen had forgotten how badly new guard armor fit. He started to tell the kid where to get it adjusted, and the door swung open.
"Come inside, quickly!"
A man rushed them inside and through the house. Every room was dark. No moonlight made it through the shuttered windows. No candles flickered. Their way was lit only by a hooded lantern in the hands of their host. He stopped once they had reached a windowless inside room, where he closed and bolted the door behind him.
"Comte de Favre?" Donnen guessed.
The man nodded. In the dim lantern light, Donnen could see that he was dressed in a gaudy brocade doublet, but had thrown a chain mail shirt over it. He wore the helmet from an obviously ceremonial armor set, slightly askew on his head.
"I know why you're here," the comte whispered. "Dunwald."
Donnen's voice was flat. "Did you kill him, your lordship?"
"This is bigger than a murder," the comte hissed, eyes flicking to the door. "Dunwald drew the attention of great powers. When dragons do battle, guardsman, mortal men can only take cover. Drop the case. Don't draw their gaze ."
Chapters 4 - 6[]
Donnen Brennokovic didn't stand on ceremony. He strode through the barracks and slammed open the door to the captain's office without so much as a nod to the guards he passed.
Just barely dawn, and already Captain Hendallen was buried behind a mountain of paperwork taller than the Vimmarks. All Donnen could see of the captain was her fiery hair and an angry gaze that had stopped more than one pickpocket mid-grift.
"Captain, I need a warrant for the Comte de Favre." Even as the words left his lips, Donnen knew they were a mistake.
The Captain rose to her feet. "Brennokovic." The way she spoke his name was like a portcullis slamming shut. "Where's my report on the Hightown Market body?" It was the kind of question you might ask a truant child, the kind where you already knew the answer and just wanted to see someone squirm in guilt.
"I'll file it after—"
"You'll file it now, guardsman." She stepped out from behind the desk. "We follow procedure in my barracks."
"A magistrate was dead murdered on my watch, Captain." Donnen's voice was heated. He could never keep his temper in her presence. "I'm not letting the killer get away."
"You left the scene without a thorough search of the market." Hendallen began pacing, her voice like cold steel. "You harassed a magistrate's widow. And you practically broke down a comte's door." She turned to glare at him. "All before dawn! If you want a warrant, you'd damned well better have hard evidence to justify it."
"I know that de Favre isn't telling us everything!" Donnen insisted. "Let me bring him in and—"
"Forget it." She crossed back to her chair. "You've got nothing. You're not arresting a man on a feeling, Brennokovic."
"Captain!" He protested. From behind her paperwork, the captain waved for him to be silent.
"You're two weeks from retirement, guardsman. You want to stay in the ranks long enough to get pensioned, you follow procedure. Find me evidence and quit wasting my time. Dismissed."
Jevlan was waiting outside the captain's office when Donnen Brennokovic slunk out, defeated.
"We're not getting a warrant, are we?" Jevlan looked almost relieved.
"No." Donnen met his partner's eyes. The kid was barely twenty and looked like he'd walked straight to the Kirkwall barracks from somebody's potato farm. Taller and broader than the other guards, Jevlan slouched as if he didn't know how to fit into his own limbs, as if he thought he should be smaller. Hunched over in his brand-new, too-large armor, he looked like a child playing at being a guard. He was too green for a murder investigation.
"Maybe it's for the best," Jevlan said, almost speaking Donnen's thought out loud. "You're on your way out of the guard, and I'm..." he trailed off, then sighed. "Questioning nobles in the middle of the night wasn't covered in training."
Donnen glared at the kid. "I'm a city guard. And so are you, recruit. Nobody gets away with murder while we're on duty."
Jevlan stood a little straighter. "What do we do, then?"
"The captain wants proof." Donnen smiled. "We bring her proof."
The estates of Hightown fall into three types. The dwarven palaces in their enclave, huddled around their counterfeit paragon statues for shelter against the onslaught of human ideas that surround them. The foreign quarter, where the wealthiest Orlesian and Antivan merchants stay during their twice-yearly visits to criticize the ship captains and shop clerks and accountants in their employ. And the noble mansions, where families who can trace their lineage back to Orlesian conquerors and Tevinter landlords perch to look down on the rabble of ordinary folk scurrying at their feet. But whoever they belong to, all of the Hightown estates have two things in common: a showy front entrance used when the occupants want to be seen and a hidden back way when they don't.
The servants' door to the Comte de Favre's mansion was in an alley hidden by overgrown topiaries. Donnen Brennokovic picked the lock while his partner, Jevlan, kept an uneasy lookout. They had left their armor at the barracks, but even in civilian clothes, the recruit managed to look like he was wearing an older brother's hand-me-downs.
"I don't think this is what the captain meant when she said to get evidence," he muttered.
The lock clicked, and Donnen gently pushed it open.
Only a few slivers of light slid through the shuttered windows. Silence hung in the air like a cheap tapestry. Donnen and Jevlan crept through the dark rooms, alert for any sign of servants, but nothing broke the eerie quiet except their footsteps. In fact, there was no sign that anyone had been in the house at all until they found the room whose door had been torn from its hinges.
Inside, the comte lay in a pool of blood, one hand clutching a loaded crossbow, a dagger hilt protruding from his back.
Chapters 7 - 9[]
Donnen Brennokovic searched Comte de Favre's office. The comte lay dead, murdered while armed and barricaded inside his own home. The servants' rooms were all empty, and from the pulled-out drawers and abandoned trunks, they had been sent away in a hurry. The comte had clearly expected trouble, and trouble had come to call.
The comte kept all of his letters. Decades of correspondence sorted by, apparently, kingdom of origin filled his writing desk. Donnen rummaged through them, looking for darker ink, fresher pages, anything that might indicate that it was recent.
And then came the shattering sound of someone kicking in the front door.
"Hey, Milord Fancypants! Get your ass down here!"
Jevlan and Donnen ran for the foyer.
A woman stood over the splintered door, her eyes glittering brighter than the daggers in her hands.
"You there!" she snapped at the guardsmen. "Where's the Comte de Fullofit? We need to have some words. One of them will be 'coin,' and another will be 'now.'"
"Kirkwall guard!" Donnen barked back at her. "This is a crime scene! Identify yourself."
"Guards, are you?" she smirked, squinting up into the dark towards him. "No suits of armor outside. Man poking around a noble's house in the dark. This does look like a crime scene."
Donnen didn't flinch. "Your name."
"Belladonna. Captain Belladonna, of the Dragon's Jewels." She executed a florid bow that somehow managed to be insulting. "Where's the damned comte?"
"He's dead," Donnen said, watching her reaction. "You wouldn't know anything about that, would you?"
She cracked a wry smile. "Trust me, sweet thing, if I were going to kill him, I'd have waited until he paid me first."
"What was your business with the comte?" Jevlan spoke up, startling Donnen. He'd almost forgotten his partner was there.
"Cargo transport." She glowered at the recruit. "He hired me to deliver some antiques and I've been sitting at anchor for a fortnight without being paid." She peered up into the dark balconies overhanging the foyer and shouted, "Anybody here? You want this rubbish, come to the docks tonight and pay me fifty sovereigns for it. Otherwise, I'm dumping it in the sea." With that, she turned on her heel and strode away.
Donnen Brennokovic left his partner, Jevlan, at the barracks. The recruit was even more jittery after their run-in with Captain Belladonna, and although Donnen himself was starting to feel his limbs weighed down and aching after such a long shift, he finally had the scent of something in this case. He wouldn't let it get away.
The city of Kirkwall has a legacy of collectors. It was built in ancient times by Tevinters who collected suffering as if it were rare coins, and they passed on their obsession with obsession to future generations. On any street from Darktown to the Viscount's Keep, you can always find someone who'll always buy tapestries or who has every known spoon made in Nevarra. Or someone who hoards odd bits and scraps of historical knowledge like it's their grandmother's crockery.
Which is how he found himself knocking on a brightly painted door in the Alienage.
"Oh, guardsman! What a nice surprise! Nobody's been mugged, have they?" The elf beamed up at him. She had green eyes so wide, they barely fit in her face, and she seemed to be made of nothing but elbows and knees.
"No muggings today, Maysie." Donnen had to duck his head slightly to get through the door. "I have something you might be interested in." He handed her the letter the magistrate's wife had given him the night before.
"Well, this doesn't look very interesting at all." Maysie frowned, disappointed. "'What you have claimed belongs to greater powers. You will answer to us.' That's a lot of rubbish."
"Not that. Look at the back."
She flipped the letter over and cooed as if she'd found a lost puppy. "Oh! Just look at you! You're just perfect!"
"Maysie." Donnen spoke in a loud, firm voice, trying to remind her he was still in the room. "Whose seal is that?"
"Oh, it's the Executors, of course!" Maysie peered excitedly at the wax seal, holding it up to the window for better light. "I should have guessed it from the silly 'great powers' nonsense. There's only been one example, on the letter claiming responsibility for the assassination of Queen Madrigal in 5:99! And this one is so much better! Just look at that imprint!"
"Any idea how I'd contact these 'Executors'?" Donnen asked.
"Oh, they're not real, of course. Everyone knows that."
Donnen Brennokovic was running out of leads to chase. He had only two weeks until retirement, just two weeks to find the man who'd murdered a magistrate and a Hightown nobleman—if Captain Hendallen didn't kick him from the ranks first.
The docks stank of piss and rotting fish, as foul as the men and women who worked there. But that was where Donnen had to go to find the raider captain Belladonna who had broken into the Comte de Favre's home.
The Dragon's Jewels was a big boat. She liked big boats. The pointy bits towered majestically over the water. That roundish wooden part seemed like it could crush armadas beneath its... shit, I don't know, wood. It was the greatest boat in the history of boats.
But even from the dock, Donnen knew something was wrong.
He ran up the gangplank to find a dead sailor on the deck and a blood trail leading down into the hold. Donnen drew his sword and followed. His eyes still hadn't adjusted to the dimness of the lower decks when he tripped over another dead sailor, stabbed in the gut and left where he'd fallen. The body was still warm. The ship creaked with every swell of the waves. Donnen held his breath and crept deeper into the hold.
He barely deflected the blade in time.
Steel rang against steel. Donnen parried a second blow, still half-blind in the low light. The third swing got past his guard and left a wicked slash in his forearm.
"Nobody attacks my crew, you flaming pile of dog shit!" the attacker swore, and Donnen recognized her voice.
"Hold! Kirkwall city guard!" he shouted, barely bringing his blade up in time.
"You again!" Donnen's eyes finally began to adjust, and he could make out Captain Belladonna. She was clutching her ribs with her right hand, a dagger in her left, and was covered in enough blood that Donnen was sure it wasn't all hers. She glowered at him. "Could have used a guard not five minutes ago. Useless as ever." She grudgingly lowered her weapon.
Donnen sheathed his sword. "Who did this?"
"Don't know. Didn't care to ask." She sniffed. "Bastard killed two of my men. Before I cut off his hand and he bolted." She waved indifferently towards the rear of the hold. "It's over there somewhere."
"Did he take the Comte's shipment?" Donnen asked.
"No. If that's what this was about, you can have it." She limped over to a trunk and removed a bundle of cloth tied with twine. She threw it at Donnen's feet. "Good riddance."
Chapters 10 - 12[]
Donnen Brennokovic had been pursuing the killer of Magistrate Dunwald without food or rest, and so far all he had was the seal of an imaginary group, a wounded arm, and a package that contained a rusted Tevinter shortsword. He was past exhaustion, and every breath made his head throb like he'd had too much too drink. He was getting too old for this shit.
He couldn't go to the barracks with a knife wound he'd picked up off-duty. If the captain caught him, and she would, he'd be thrown out of the guard for sure. That left one option.
The Chantry clinic turned no one away, but it usually didn't have to. The presence of three Circle healers was more than enough to frighten more decent folk into deciding to wait and see if they got better on their own.
Aside from a few drunken beggars snoring in the beds, the clinic was quiet. The healer didn't ask his name and tended the wound with only a disapproving frown. In a few breaths, his arm was as good as ever. Pity magic wouldn't mend his coat sleeve.
As he walked through the nave toward the exit, he heard a voice.
"Guardsman, I was just about to look for you."
The deep black gown she wore only made her eyes more otherworldly. A scent like lilacs filled the air around her. She may have been dressed in mourning garb, but she was dressed to kill.
Donnen bowed. "Lady Marielle."
"We should talk. I may have a lead for you."
The Café d'Or perched atop a hill in the Orlesian district of Hightown, with a view of the entire city so the wealthy patrons could keep an eye on the peasants toiling below. Lady Marielle studied the room across the rim of her cup. A few nobles sat at the delicate little tables, sipping tea from Rivain and whispering among themselves about the latest maneuvers in the Grand Game a thousand leagues away.
"What's this lead you have for me?" Donnen broke the silence, acutely aware that he stank of sweat and fish from the docks and was wearing a ripped, bloodstained coat in the most high-class café in Kirkwall.
"We're being followed, guardsman." The lady's voice was low; from the tone, she might have been discussing the weather. "The two gentlemen in the corner by the door."
Donnen picked up his teacup and gestured with it as if making a point while he turned slightly in his chair to look. The men were finely dressed but almost as out of place as he was: a large, sickly-pale Ander with a face full of scars and a tattooed Chasind with a stone dagger at his belt.
"A Chasind in a doublet? That's one for the history books," Donnen murmured.
Lady Marielle favored him with a half-smile. "Last night. A man came by the estate. He said he wanted to buy Seamus' collection. All of it."
Donnen sat up straighter. "The swords?"
"He said his name was Wagner." She sipped delicately at her tea. "He gave me an address in Lowtown in case I changed my mind. Those two have been shadowing me ever since."
They say you can buy anything in the Lowtown Bazaar. It's mostly true. On the right day, you can find vendors hawking spices from Seheron, the legacies of unknown dwarven Paragons, maps to hidden fortresses in the Donarks, and the crown jewel of Antiva. And no bookstore in Thedas peddles more wild stories than Lowtown.
Donnen Brennokovic made a point of greeting each shopkeeper as he passed so that the continual chant of "Guardsman" reached the ears of the two large men shadowing him since he'd left Lady Marielle in Hightown.
The address she'd given him led to a warehouse in the Foundry district, a section of the city populated only by rusted metal spikes and vagrants. Donnen knocked on the door.
An immaculately dressed butler greeted him and gestured for him to enter. "Guardsman Brennokovic. Messere Wagner has been expecting you."
Donnen followed him through a labyrinth of warehouse offices to a back room richly appointed with silk carpets and tapestries depicting the execution of Andraste. Two heavy armchairs upholstered in velvet occupied the center of the room. In one sat a smug red-haired man dressed entirely in blinding white samite. The other chair was empty. "Guardsman! Please sit." The gentleman spoke with a heavy Starkhaven accent.
"I suppose you would be Messere Wagner?" Donnen asked.
"I am a procurer of antiquities, Serah Brennokovic. As I'm sure the Lady Dunwald explained." Wagner carefully lit a pipe made of carved bloodstone and inhaled. "But we are both men of business, guardsman. You are soon to retire, are you not? Allow me to present you with an opportunity."
Donnen turned a critical eye on the tapestry of Andraste's pyre. "I'm listening."
Wagner watched him through a growing veil of smoke. "Do you know what Seamus Dunwald had in his possession, guardsman? What made the poor man worth killing?"
"Do tell."
"The Sword of Hessarian." Wagner leaned forward, studying him closely. "The very blade that pierced Andraste's heart."
Donnen gave him a flat stare. "If I believed that were even possible, I'd think that blade would be worth a lot of coin."
"Most would look at it and see a rusted piece of scrap. It is no longer the jeweled blade of an archon. But to the right buyer, guardsman, the sword is worth an empire's ransom. I know such buyers." Wagner smiled. "It is here. In Kirkwall. And if you help me find it, I can make you a very rich man."
Chapters 13 - 15[]
In the Lowtown Bazaar, Donnen paused to pay a little elven girl to play courier for him before making the long climb back uphill to Hightown. A careful glance told him the scar-faced Ander and the tattooed Chasind were still tailing him.
Donnen was certain they'd love the Viscount's Keep.
He passed beneath the stone gaze of the cormorant statues flanking the gates and nodded to the guards on his way to the barracks. No one noticed his ragged, bloody clothing, which disappointed him as much as he benefited from it. Recruits these days. Always slacking off.
Donnen bypassed the Captain's office and went looking for Jevlan. By now the kid ought to be rested up, and Donnen suspected he would need backup if his large, suspicious shadows decided to pick a fight.
But Jevlan's bunk was empty.
Donnen noted blood spatter on the bedding and a scent like lilacs. All of his gear was missing. In the center of the bunk was a note.
"Bring the blade to the quays tonight at midnight, or the boy dies."
It was signed with a wax seal: six crossed swords.
The late Magistrate Dunwald's butler blinked as Donnen Brennokovic barged into the foyer.
"Get Lady Marielle. Now." He headed straight to the parlor where the magistrate's collection was displayed.
Wrapped in a black shawl, Marielle sauntered into the room and leaned against one of the glass cases. "Guardsman! What a pleasant surprise."
"Where's Jevlan?"
Her smile faltered. "Why do you think I would know? He's your partner."
Donnen held up the note. "Your perfume, Lady Marielle." He dropped it on the display case beside her. "What were you doing in the guard barracks?"
"I didn't leave the note," she said with measured calm. "And I don't have your partner."
"But you were in the barracks." He stepped away to examine a display. "You told me Wagner wanted to buy the Magistrate's entire collection, but he said he was only interested in one blade." He opened the case. "And I think it was never in Seamus' collection. I think it was the sword meant to go right here." He pointed to the empty velvet-lined box. "I looked in the Viscount's records, and you've only been married to Magistrate Dunwald for about three weeks. You tell me who you're working for and where my partner is, and I'll see if we can't get you a deal with the Viscount's office.
"The Chantry." Marielle closed the door quietly. "They sent me to Kirkwall a few months ago when rumors of the sword began to surface." She examined the note. "I don't have Jevlan. This was already on his bunk when I went to find both of you."
Donnen didn't hide his scepticism. "You're innocent, but you didn't report him missing to any of the guards."
"Someone took him from the barracks, serah, with no one the wiser. That doesn't seem strange to you?" She looked him in the eye. "Have you ever heard of the Executors?"
"They're a myth."
"A myth that kills." She sighed. "The Executors have your partner, and I think they have someone inside the City Guard. How else could they have gotten Jevlan out of the keep without being seen?"
Donnen watched her fidget with her shawl. "Why were you in the barracks?"
"I suspected the Executors had an inside man." She shrugged. "How else could they have gotten poor Comte De Favre to open the door to his killer? Since he arranged the sword's purchase for Seamus, he'd been hiding in his own home. The only people he'd seen were Seamus and you."
The nobles of Hightown like to imagine that petty crime can only happen in the dank shadows of Darktown or maybe the crooked alleyways of Lowtown between the Alienage and the poorest neighborhoods. Their lofty, ivy-walled avenues could never be the site of something as crude as a mugging or a simple assault.
Donnen didn't have much trouble finding an out-of-the-way alcove near the Chantry to wait for the scarred Ander and the tattooed Chasind to catch up with him.
The Ander came at him first, dropping down from the balcony above his head. While Donnen tried to back out of his reach, the Chasind loomed behind him, clamping an enormous, vise-like hand on his shoulder. The Ander's follow-up punch just below his ribs knocked the air from his lungs.
As the Chasind lifted him up by his coat, Donnen got back enough of his breath to say, "You work for Wagner? I need to give him a message."
This earned him a skeptical look from the Ander, but the Chasind set his feet back on the ground.
"Tell him I have his sword. He can meet me in the quays at midnight to settle on the price." For a long, nervous moment, Donnen watched a variety of expressions pass over the Ander's scarred, greyish face before the man nodded. Another long moment, and both Ander and Chasind walked away, leaving him alone in the alcove.
With the sun just setting, there was only one place left that Donnen needed to go.
The tavern in the center of Lowtown sat in its own tiny moat of spilled ale, vomit, and the seawater the owner flung at the walls in a half-hearted attempt to scour the seagull crap from the building. Donnen, like nearly every guardsman who drank at The Hanged Man, walked through the door to a frantic chorus of "Put it away! Hurry!" He tried not to smile and completely succeeded when the brooding, white-haired elven bartender greeted him with a murderous glower. "Guardsman."
Donnen placed a handful of copper coins on the bar. "Keep the ale coming, Ferris. I've got some time to kill."
Chapters 16 - 18[]
Donnen left the tavern and headed out through a moonless night. Fog clung to the streets and buildings like cobwebs, and the heavy air threatened rain. Any other night, he would have gone straight up to the barracks, but he had appointments to keep.
The quays at midnight exchange the cacophony of swearing sailors for the mournful sound of distant bells in the harbor. Donnen found Wagner and his two thugs waiting just out of sight of the harbormaster's office. In the fog, Wagner's white samite coat made him gleam like a smug moon.
"Messere Brennokovic. I trust you've brought my merchandise?" Wagner smiled. Beside him, the tattooed Chasind cleaned what might have been blood from his nails with his dagger.
Donnen reached into his coat and pulled out a small, cloth-wrapped bundle. "We should discuss a few things first."
Wagner's eyes gleamed in the reflected light of his paunch. "The price, of course." He gestured to the scarred Ander, who held up a bag of coins. "One hundred crowns should suffice, yes?"
"That depends." Donnen toyed with the twine securing the bundle's wrapping. "You killed Magistrate Dunwald, didn't you? After my run-in with your friends here, I realized the only blade that could have made that kind of stab wound was your Chasind's stone knife."
Wagner shrugged. "Men die all the time, serah. We should not let that unpleasantness get in the way of business." Another gesture, and the Ander strode forward to stand just inches away from Donnen, brandishing the bag of gold like a flail.
"And Jevlan?" Donnen asked.
"I know nothing of your partner's fate."
Donnen handed over the bundle, and the Ander dropped the bag at his feet to deliver the prize to his boss. Wagner eagerly unwrapped the bundle, revealing an ancient, rusty, and pitted shortsword. He frowned. "This is not the blade."
Both Chasind and Ander drew their daggers.
Donnen held his ground. "Pity you killed Dunwald for it, then"
"You think I'd kill a magistrate and not a guardsman?" Wagner laughed. "Unwise, serah."
"That's all we needed to hear." Captain Hendallen stepped around the corner behind Donnen, a dozen guards with her. For the first time in months, he saw what might have been a smile on her face. "Good work, guardsman. We'll take it from here."
Donnen left it to his captain and a dozen of Kirkwall's finest to drag Wagner and his thugs to the stocks. The heavy air gave up and turned into sheets of rain. The ancient grey stone stairs leading up to Lowtown turned into a waterfall. Donnen slogged up the narrow passage, boots squelching with every step.
He almost didn't hear the ambush coming.
As he reached the top of the stairs, a faint rasp of steel made him throw himself aside into a vegetable seller's table. A sword swung through the air where he'd been and chimed against the rock wall.
Donnen fumbled at his scabbard and just managed to catch the second blow with his sword. He had one moment as they locked blades to recognize his attacker. The younger man had shed his guard uniform for dark leathers, and his left arm now ended in a bandaged stump, but there was no mistaking him.
"Jevlan?"
"Where is the Blade of Hessarian?" Jevlan recovered from the parried blow to slash at Donnen's legs.
He dodged back, slipping and nearly stumbling ass-first down the stairs. "It was you. The inside man. You're the one who killed De Favre." Donnen lunged at the recruit. Jevlan quickly moved to block, but Donnen's blade sliced his arm, drawing blood.
"Give me the sword! I know that pirate hag gave it to you!" Jevlan swung a series of hard slashes, trying to break Donnen's guard or knock him down the stairs. In the darkness and the driving rain, the guardsman struggled to see his attacker.
Still, Donnen grinned. "You left it at the quay. I guess you ran off without it when the lady took your hand off. Not my fault you picked a fight you couldn't win." He tried to edge away from the stairs, but the rookie kept him pinned between the vegetable stall and a fall to his death.
Jevlan lunged, his blade punching through Donnen's armor just below his ribs, but the recruit slipped on the wet stone during his attack and stumbled into his enemy. Donnen shoved him away—and over the stairs. His fall ended with a sickening crack of broken bones.
Donnen drew a ragged breath and pulled Jevlan's sword from his side, trying not to slip on his own blood. The Chantry was a long way off.
The rain stopped with a suddenness that suggested some enterprising footpad from the Coterie had climbed up to shank the clouds. The fog drifted off to haunt a better part of the Wounded Coast, and as Donnen reached the Chantry Courtyard, the clouds parted to let a sliver of moonlight shine on the rain-swept flagstones. He stopped to catch his breath and tighten the torn-off coat sleeve he'd used as a bandage. The bleeding was slowing, which meant either the wound in his side wasn't that deep or he was running out of blood to lose. Trying not to dwell on the latter, he pushed open the Chantry doors.
At this Maker-forsaken hour, the Chantry was lit only by the Eternal Flame at Andraste's feet. A single soul occupied the space, lighting a candle for the dead. She rose as Donnen staggered into the firelight.
"Guardsman!" Lady Marielle rushed to help him into one of the pews.
"Might want to wake up one of the healers." He managed a pained smile. "I wasn't sure you'd be here."
"Neither was I. Your message was a little vague." Marielle tried to examine his makeshift bandage, but Donnen waved her away.
He pointed toward the golden statue of Andraste. "I had a friend deliver something for you. Under the altar."
Marielle cast him a sceptical look, but she climbed the dais and returned with a small oilcloth bundle. She picked apart the wrapping's knot and peered down at the rusty blade inside, specks of dried blood still clinging to the pitted guard.
"The Sword of Hessarian," she breathed, almost a prayer.
"You can get it to the Divine?" Donnen asked.
She wiped at her eyes. "I'll take it to her myself. What do you want in return?"
Donnen struggled to his feet. "Just put in a good word for me with the Maker, your ladyship. You never know when I might need it." And he walked away, leaving her standing in the firelight with history in her hands.
Unknown entry[]
Donnen wiped spilled ale off the bar, listening to the cries of the birds and the crashing of waves outside. Another slow day on the Amaranthine Coast. The tavern didn't get many visitors—just a little too far south of the Antivan border to catch the caravans—but he hadn't opened it to make a profit.
He poured a glass of plum brandy from a chipped decanter and carried it out to the patio, where an impressive Orlesian mustache was keeping company with an old Grey Warden playing a minuet on a lute.
Donnen handed the brandy to the Warden, in some deference to his mustache, and the gentleman accepted it with grace, placing the glass on the table before finishing the last measure of his song.
"You have my thanks, guardsman." The Orlesian set the lute on a nearby chair and allowed the brandy to approach his mustache. The mustache did not appear impressed with the vintage.
"It's just Donnen these days," he replied, looking out over the waves. "My time in the Kirkwall guard is over."
"I spent so many years in and around the City of Chains," the Warden sighed. "We're both lucky to have escaped her clutches."
The sun was setting behind them, drawing long shadows on the ground that stretched toward the sea.
"Maybe." Donnen shrugged, watching the waves turn dark in the distance. "Some days, I'm not sure all of me made it out."
"To what we've left behind." The Orlesian raised his glass in a toast, and the two men watched the light fade over the ocean in peace.
He poured some noxious Ander stout from an oak cask into a heavy tankard and carried it outside to a dark-haired nobleman on the patio idly strumming a lute so out of tune, it sounded like some other instrument, perhaps a tuba or a kettle drum, trying to invent music from scratch.
Donnen handed over the tankard, only half-hoping it would stop him from playing any more.
"That's very kind of you, guardsman." Thankfully, the gentleman set aside his lute and took the tankard, putting his feet up on the table in front of him.
"It's just Donnen these days," he replied, looking out over the waves. "My time in the Kirkwall guard is over."
"It's never really gone." The nobleman smiled. "Kirkwall. It finds its way into your soul, and once it gets there, you carry it always."
The sun was setting behind them, casting long shadows from the tavern down to the water. A flock of cormorants took advantage of the fading light to dive for fish making their way back out to sea.
"Maybe so." Donnen smiled, too. "But the world can always use a Champion or a guardsman wherever they happen to go."
The gentleman raised his tankard. "I'll drink to that."
And the two men watched the last of the light disappear in peace.
He poured a glass of red Orlesian wine and carried it out to the patio where Lady Marielle sat, playing a lute for the benefit of a distant flock of cormorants and a sleepy mabari hound.
Donnen handed her the glass with a smile. "Can I get you anything else, your ladyship?"
"That's very kind of you, guardsman." Marielle set aside her lute; the sleepy hound looked up, annoyed at having its lullaby interrupted.
"It's just Donnen these days," he replied, looking out over the waves. "My time in the Kirkwall guard is over."
"Is it?" She smiled slyly over the glass. "You don't think naming a tavern The Watch was a sign that perhaps you can take the guardsman out of Kirkwall, and even out of the Guard, but he never... quite leaves?"
The sun was setting behind them. The hound stretched and ambled over to the table to lay his head on Lady Marielle's knee and beg for table scraps. In the distance, the cormorants took off in a single motion to return to their roosts up the shore.
Donnen smiled back. "Maybe you're right. But tonight I'm off duty, your ladyship."
"Marielle," she corrected. "And to answer your question, you can get me some company. One guardsman might suffice."
And the two of them watched the last of the light disappear together in peace.
He poured a glass of smoky Fereldan whisky and carried it out to the patio where a sandy-haired fellow was attempting to play the lute. Or murder the lute. Or murder the concept of music itself. It probably didn't help that the man was holding the lute straight out in front of him as if he feared it were a snake that might bite him.
Donnen offered the fellow the glass, fervently hoping it would make the playing stop.
"Guardsman! You came to my rescue just in time!" The blond man took the glass with a sheepish laugh and all but threw the lute into a nearby chair.
"It's just Donnen these days," he replied, looking out over the waves. "My time in the Kirkwall guard is over."
"Retirement is grand, isn't it? No more responsibility, no more senior officers yelling at you, no more Kirkwall..." The other man looked wistfully out at the birds diving into the waves down the coast.
The sun was setting behind them, turning the Amaranthine Ocean a deep sapphire and sending the seabirds back up the cliffs to their nests.
"Kirwall's still out there. Along with all those other things. I just didn't bring them to the bar." Donnen grinned. "So what did you retire from?"
"You wouldn't believe me if I told you." The man gave him a lopsided grin in return. "You want to hear a badly told story about a bastard prince with an unholy love of cheese?"
"Why not? We've got time."
And while the blond man spun his unlikely tale, the two of them watched the last of the light vanish in peace.
He poured the last dregs of a pale Fereldan lager into a mug and headed out to the patio where an old soldier sat strumming a particularly battered-looking lute.
Donnen held out the mug like a peace offering.
"Thank you, guardsman." The soldier set aside the lute in favor of the mug with a businesslike efficiency. The grizzled mabari curled up at his feet flicked one ear, dreaming.
"It's just Donnen these days," He replied, looking out over the waves. "My time in the Kirkwall guard is over."
"Is it?" the soldier sighed, looking down at the sleeping dog. "If you don't still wake up from dreams about patrols, you're luckier than most."
The sun slipped down another notch in the sky behind them, and the wind coming in off the sea turned cooler.
"You know what I miss?" Donnen said. "The smell of the Lowtown Bazaar in the morning. Two dozen bakeries with loaves of bread and sweet pies in the oven."
"There are worse things," the soldier laughed, "to remember about home than the smell of pies baking." Then he sighed again. "You really are luckier than most."
Donnen smiled. "Maybe so."
The old soldier raised his mug. "Here's to home."
At his feet, the hound twitched her paws, chasing rabbits in her sleep, and the last light faded from the sky in peace.
References[]
- ↑
Dragon Age: The World of Thedas, vol. 2, p. 159
