the secret garden

The coin pouch Asher had given him felt uncomfortably heavy against Tarquin’s thigh as he walked.  It wasn’t the physical weight that had him unsettled — no, it was nothing in comparison to the sword and shield he had wielded for years in that regard — but the discomfort of the reminder.  Ashur was a highblood.  Never pretended to be anything else, except when he did.  

It wasn’t that Ashur ever lied about the fact he was an Altus, he didn’t, but he rarely volunteered it either.  For safety, sure, but Tarquin also suspected it was due to the discomfort.  The highblood leading a commoner’s rebellion. The slave owning class leading an underground movement to free the slaves.

Noble aims. A purpose with conscience. But incredibly Tevinter even so; slaves, liberati, Soporati never led shit.  Even in this, mages — highbloods at that — led the way. 

He knew Ashur saw the irony. Felt the chafe of it.

Made Tarquin uncomfortable, too.  As far as he’d come in the Shadow Dragons, he was, and always would be, fundamentally below Ashur. In the Shadow Dragons. In life.

The coins that softly jangled in the soft leather sack Ashur had handed him drove home the point.

Was Ashur trusting him not to run off with the large sum?  Or was he rich enough it didn’t matter if Tarquin did?

Why was the fee he was being sent to pay so high anyway? Tarquin didn’t spend much time around the various detention buildings in Minrathous — his sentence was served somewhere far duller — but to his knowledge Soporati inmates didn’t usually need to pay a fee counted in sacks of gold often.

Be a poor bribery system if they did; it wasn’t like most of them could come up with that sort of coin.

Either the man Ashur had sent him to free was assumed to have access to more money than most Soporati saw in a good few years, or he’d done something to offend the Altus class so profoundly that they were intentionally setting freedom out of reach.

The Hightown caveola was far more grandiose than those in Dock Town.  In keeping with every other building up here.  Had to wonder what a sleeper had been doing up here to begin with. Tarquin’s Templar armor made him look like he belonged here, in the same way the slaves’ robes designated them as in the right place.  They were the help.  He was a tool of the Magisterium; all Templars were.

But a random man? He’d have stood out like a sore thumb.  Wasn’t allowed to live here, wasn’t likely to work here.  So why had he been here to begin with?  And how had he ended up detained?

Tarquin cursed Ashur’s paranoid refusal to divulge more information as he drew near the building. “I believe we have common cause with a man being held in Hightown. I’ll pay his fee, but I need you to go get him,” didn’t give Tarquin much to go on.

The Templar at the door — Marius, if Tarquin remembered correctly from a glance at the schedule books in the archives before he’d set out — raised an eyebrow as Tarquin approached.  “Need something?”

“Altus sent me to pay the fee for one of your pick-ups,” Tarquin grunted.  “Said he was a sleeper that came in yesterday.”

Marius stepped aside and gestured for Tarquin to enter.  The Templar captain for the caveola held out a hand. “You said you were here to pay the fee for that obnoxious pissant?”

He felt his eyebrows climb up his forehead at the description.  “Been a problem, has he?”

The captain grunted and from outside the doorway Tarquin could hear Marius snickering.  “Don’t know if he physically can’t stop running his mouth or if he just refuses too. It’s 200 gold if you want to make him your problem.”

“Luckily I’m not here for me,” Tarquin said dryly.  He pulled out Ashur’s bribe — sorry, fee — money and dropped the sack in the captain’s outstretched hand. “Just back there then?”

The captain waved him in, tossing over a key without looking, and after he tucked it away Tarquin went through a closed wooden door into a narrow hallway.  

“Is that you, Captain?” A voice tinged with amusement echoed down the way.  “I hope so.  It’s not nearly as fun talking to myself; no one’s veins bulge in their head, and that really adds to the experience for me as an orator.”

Down near the end of the row, just before the heavy metal door that separated regular cages from stone cells, was a man doing a handstand.  

“Huh,” he said as Tarquin came into his line of sight. “You’re new.”

He tilted back onto his feet and stood.  His back was straight, shoulders back; looked near to standing at attention.  Tall and lanky, though, Tarquin doubted he could hold up a sword and board for long even normally, let alone as battered as he’d clearly been.  Bruises bloomed on his face and what could be seen of his neck, and there was an unnatural stiffness to his movements.  Like it hurt to breathe.

He’d heard Tarquin’s voice along with the captain’s and realized someone would be coming, Tarquin suddenly realized. The handstand was a showing of defiant resilience.

“You’ve been here less than a day. Wouldn’t every shift change be new to you?” Tarquin asked. 

“Bold assumption that this is my first visit.” He smirked.  

His eyes were lit with an arrogant sort of challenge, as though the man was taunting him. He was brave, Tarquin would give him that, antagonizing someone who — at least by looks — could get away with beating him within an inch of his life had Tarquin been so inclined. Wouldn’t be hard, given the man’s condition.

The scene had an odd feeling of repetition, the defiant and damaged face not as unfamiliar as it should be. 

“Have I met you before?” Tarquin wondered aloud.

The man shrugged, as though unconcerned.  “Don’t think so? You’re not a guard here, I know that. Don’t recognize you from my neighborhood either.”

Tarquin studied him, crossing his arms over his armored chest as he took in each detail.  The curly hair, the light eyes…his eyes kept catching on the scar on the man’s face.  Like a thin blade had glanced down his forehead into his cheek below.  Pale and old, far older than the black and blue marks he had now.

“How’d you get that?” He asked, gesturing.

“I make friends lots of places.”

Tarquin snorted.  Right. He was starting to understand why the captain had been quite so complimentary.

Well, if he wasn’t new to the Hightown caveola then he had made both friends and enemies here.  Far from home, Tarquin knew, because the man’s accent wasn’t from Minrathous.  No, he was from farther out. Ventus, maybe, or the farms near it.

Maybe Tarquin had seen him there? Years before?

He couldn’t say with certainty.  He didn’t remember much of Ventus.  

He tried not to, anyway.

“You aren’t from here,” Tarquin prodded.

“From Hightown? No, definitely not,” the prisoner agreed easily. 

“From Minrathous.”

“Hmmm.  Hard to say.  I went to school in Minrathous.  Can’t say I was born here though.” He shrugged.

Ashur had been clear the man was a sleeper, which meant if he’d been schooled in Minrathous there was really only one choice as to where.  “So you were a soldier. What’s your nomen?”

The man’s lips curled up, but his eyes narrowed.  A dangerous expression.  “You may be the smartest Templar I’ve met, Templar…?”

“Tarquin.  What’s your nomen?”  The man was being far too evasive about a simple question.  What did he have to hide that he wouldn’t share his name?

“Mercar.  Pleasure to meet you, Tarquin.  If you don’t mind opening my cage, I’ll even shake your hand.”

Tarquin rolled his eyes at the sad effort as his mind turned over this new information.  Mercar was a common name for the Soporati.  Could toss a stone at a crowd and probably hit one.  But if this Mercar had been educated in Minrathous, it meant he’d come from a family with money or connections or both.  And the list of Soporati families with the Mercar name and that kind of access was far smaller.  

“Mercar like the Legatus Mercar in Ventus?”

The man smiled but it didn’t reach his eyes.  “Lot of Mercars about, and I’m not related to that one.  Besides,” that arrogant challenge remained writ on his face, “if I knew a Legatus, don’t you think I’d be out of here by now?”

Tarquin supposed he had a point. 

He brought out the key and unlocked the cage, enjoying the look of surprise on Mercar’s face as he finished.  Sometimes the overconfident needed a reminder they weren’t invincible. 

Mercar stepped out, as though worried Tarquin might change his mind.

On a hunch, Tarquin held out a hand.  “Do I get that handshake now?”

Mercar snorted, but reached out and took Tarquin’s hand in a firm grin. Callouses on his palm and his fingers; he was experienced with two-handed blade fighting.  Tarquin used his grip to hold Mercar in place as he reached over to yank the man’s left sleeve up his arm.

The brand of dishonor on Mercar’s forearm was explanation enough for his evasiveness.

He let go and Mercar pulled his sleeve back down, muttering about Tarquin’s lack of manners in failing to even take him to dinner first.

“So, Templar Tarquin, am I free to go?”

Tarquin shrugged.  “Sure.  But I’ve got a friend — seemingly a fan of yours, since he paid your fee — who’d like to meet you.”

“Huh.”

After a stop up front, to collect Mercar’s belongings — an armored coat, a long sword and a dagger, and a belt with far too many pouches — Mercar followed Tarquin out of the caveola, with a “see you next time!” to the captain and Marius on his way.

“So, this friend of yours…why’d he pay the fee?” Mercar asked as they made quick work to get out of Hightown.

“Your guess is as good as mine.  Maybe he needs a new jester,” Tarquin said dryly.

——————

“Dock Town’s an odd choice for someone who can drop coin on a stranger,” Mercar commented as they wound their way through the alleys and cobbled streets on their way to the Shadow Dragon hideout.

Tarquin couldn’t say he was wrong.  Didn’t often see highbloods in this part of the city, and if you did see them there it typically meant they’d either gotten lost or they felt like taking out their inadequacies on those with the least value to them.  

Highbloods who’d joined their little rebel group were a rare exception.  

“Well, he’s a rare man.”

Mercar cocked an eyebrow and a slow smirk curled his lips. Tarquin immediately regretted how he’d phrased that and felt an annoying heat rise in his cheeks.

“Is that so? How rare? Is he looking to add another—”

“We’re here.” And Tarquin had never been so grateful as to see Lorelei’s shop come into view. He had absolutely no desire to find out just how inappropriate Mercar’s questions would’ve become.

“Lorelai,” Tarquin greeted as they entered.  She looked at Mercar, now dressed like he expected trouble and with weapons to match, with wariness.  From what little Tarquin knew, that was probably a smart decision.  

“Who’s this then?” She asked.

“I’m Mercar.” The man smiled winningly, offering his hand.  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Lorelai.”

He hadn’t hesitated. His smile, though a bit much, was sincere and he met the elven shopkeeper’s eyes.  He was polite, when he wanted to be, but more than that he treated elves as he ought to.

It shouldn’t be something Tarquin noticed, but it was less common in Tevinter than it should be. Perhaps Ashur’s information was good.

She hesitated, but gave Mercar’s hand a perfunctory shake.  “We’ll see.”

Mercar followed Tarquin to the pressure glyph hidden in the storage area.  The look he shot Tarquin as the wall slid open to reveal the Shadow Dragon hideout behind it was curious, but for the first time in their journey he let something go without comment.  

Waiting for them, as though he’d known precisely when they would arrive — and maybe he had. Or maybe he’d been jumping around on roof tops again like a bloody cat — was Ashur.

“Mercar, meet your benefactor: the Viper.  Viper, here’s Mercar.”

Mercar rocked back and forth on his heels.  Thinking back, Tarquin wasn’t sure he’d seen the man stand still at any point since he’d met him.  Was he always like this? Or was this nervous energy? Mercar had, after all, gotten in trouble, gotten arrested, been in jail, and then had his way paid out by a stranger who’d brought him to a secret hideout to meet a much richer stranger.

Could be disconcerting, all that.

“Thanks for the help,” Mercar finally said.  “The Viper, huh? Cool pseudonym. Why do you need one?”

The Viper raised an eyebrow, making use of the only part of his face that was visible.  “You don’t engage with much subtlety, do you?” He observed.  To Tarquin’s ear he sounded more amused than offended.  

“I mean, it’s an obvious question.” Mercar shrugged.

“And was it obvious you needed to attack a Magister in Hightown yesterday?” 

Ah, so that’s what had landed him in the caveola and gotten his fee set so high. 

Mercar shrugged. “He started it.”

“He attacked you?” Tarquin asked, brow furrowing. Why would a Magister attack a Soporati? Had Mercar run his mouth? It wouldn’t surprise Tarquin if he had, based their short acquaintance.

“Not exactly.”

“He beat his slave,” the Viper said. “And you defended him.”

In an instant it all came together.  Ashur’s interest in Mercar, his willingness to pay the high fee. A former soldier who cared about the slaves? If he was any good those blades, and if he could learn to keep his mouth shut…Tarquin could easily see how he’d be able to help them.

“People aren’t property,” Mercar said firmly, crossing his arms over his chest.  “And only a coward hits someone who isn’t able to hit back.”

“Well said.” Tarquin couldn’t see Ashur’s smile, but he knew from the man’s tone that it was there.

How did the bastard always know where to find these people? 

“Tarquin and I are of similar mind.  And we aim to bring the light into Tevinter society.”

“Is this a cult?” Mercar looked intrigued but wary.

“Feels it, sometimes,” Tarquin muttered. At Ashur’s look he spoke up, “But no.  Just idealistic idiots who want Tevinter to be better.  Get rid of the slavery. The corruption.”

“So maybe a cult.  But alright.” Mercar gestured for them to go on.