Chapter Text
Lucanis inspects the merchandise at a blacksmith table in Treviso’s market. He’s been browsing stalls for three hours, but nothing is catching his eye. He has coin to spend, the desire to purchase something, and not a single item calls to him. Usually he has no trouble spending hours in the market, wandering from merchant to merchant, enjoying the quiet of his own thoughts.
Viago grumbles, “We’ve been standing here for ten minutes. There are at least two of Illario’s spies staring at us.”
Lucanis ignores Viago. The other man worries too much. Lucanis picks up a dagger and checks the balance. It’s slightly off. “Do you have any spell knives, Keller?” he asks the smith.
“No,” Keller says sourly. “The Denerim Circle won’t sell to me anymore. Their First Enchanter said something about not trusting the end-use of their products.” The smith huffs. “They hear ‘Antiva’ and automatically assume their goods will be used in an assassination.”
“Imagine that,” Lucanis says.
Keller nods. “I’ve been trying to work out a deal with a few smiths in Orlais, but they’re even stingier. Unless it’s wine, war, or religion, Orlesians don’t want to sell.”
“Odd,” Lucanis muses. “They never have an issue hiring us to remove wine merchants, warmongers, or priests.”
“Imagine that,” the smith echoes.
Lucanis inspects another dagger.
“Will you hurry up?” Viago complains. “I don’t like how the Santos boy is looking at us.”
“I broke the Santos boy’s right hand three weeks ago,” Lucanis says blandly. “He’s not skilled enough to use his left for anything.”
The smith chuckles. “I’d wager he’s good at using it for something.”
Viago grumbles, “You’re not taking this threat nearly as seriously as you should.”
“I’m taking that particular threat as seriously as it deserves,” Lucanis says. He taps his finger near another knife on the table. “How much for this one?”
“Eh, it’s not my best work,” Keller says. He names a price at least twenty percent below the dagger’s worth.
Lucanis doesn’t bother haggling. He pays Keller and tucks the dagger into a hidden sheathe in his sleeve. It fits perfectly, and will likely break after one use. “Do you know if anyone else in the market has spell knives?” he asks. “I’d consider Tevinter steel.”
The smith shrugs. “Check with Giorgio. He might have a few. He sells almost exclusively to Crow-mages, and they’re very particular about their knives.”
“I’m aware,” Lucanis says.
Viago interrupts. “They are walking this way.”
Lucanis doesn’t turn around. He looks at Keller. “Do you see two boys – one wearing a gold sash, the other wearing a blue and gold vest – behind us?”
“So you did see them,” Viago grumbles.
“The vested one is doing a piss-poor of job of hiding behind Antoinetta’s spice cart. If she catches him, she’ll box his ears,” Keller says.
Lucanis half-smiles. “And the gold sash?”
“The Santos boy with the broken hand? He’s striding this way.”
“Striding?”
“He looks ridiculous,” Keller says. “Like a newborn colt learning to walk.” He peers over Lucanis’s shoulder. “No, I take that back. Newborn colts have grace and skill. That one has… I don’t think I know a word in Antivan to describe that.”
Lucanis rolls his eyes and turns around.
The Santos boy – his first name escapes Lucanis, but he’s certainly a boy, barely seventeen – stops mid-stride. His puts one foot too closely in front of the other, and trips forward. He yelps and lands heavily on his still-healing right hand. His squeal of pain echoes briefly in the market space before his friend rushes to his side, claps his hands over the Santos boy’s mouth, and they both look fearfully at Lucanis.
Lucanis stares back.
The boy in the gold and blue vest turns very pale.
The Santos boy whimpers.
Viago folds his arms and mutters, “Your grandmother would kill them.”
“She would,” Lucanis agrees. “I’m feeling charitable.”
Viago grumbles.
Lucanis approaches the boys. He stands over them.
The market is almost silent. Most everyone is pretending not to notice a thing.
The boys glance at one another and back to Lucanis. The vested boy lowers his hand from his friend’s mouth and slips it behind his back. Before he can move again, Lucanis draws his sword and holds the tip steadily near the boy’s throat. The boy freezes.
“Don’t do that,” Lucanis says.
The boy blinks.
“Put it down.”
The boy does as he’s told and gingerly places a dagger on the ground. It’s as long as his forearm, made of iron, pitted and raw metal. It’s a cheap blade from a cheaper employer.
Lucanis glances at the Santos boy. He looks terrified. And young. So young.
You don’t make a Crow from an old man, Lucanis thinks. You make us from broken bones, bloodied noses, shattered souls, and crushed hearts. We can’t fly until we’ve lost all sense of safety.
These boys are young, and Lucanis can sympathize with youth, but only to a point. Stupidity was never in his cards, unlike these boys. Their stupidity will be their downfall.
“I can’t tell if you want to die, or if you’re just testing my patience,” Lucanis says, keeping his sword hovering just over the vested boy’s throat, not touch his skin. “I’m leaning towards a mix of both.”
The Santos boy swallows. “M-Master Illario promised money if I killed you.”
“Did he now? How much?”
The Santos boy blinks.
Lucanis clicks his tongue. “I won’t ask again.”
The boy whimpers. “E-enough.”
“Enough? Enough to do what?” Lucanis stares the boys down. “I’d wager it’s not anywhere close to what real clients would pay.”
The boys remain silent.
“This is your final warning, Santos,” Lucanis says. “Next time, I’ll take your hand instead of breaking it. Am I clear?”
The Santos boy cradles his healing hand close to his chest. That is response enough. He was never a real threat and likely never will be.
Lucanis turns his attention to the boy in the vest. The boy struggles not to look at the sword tip so close to his trembling throat. Lucanis feels like he’s made his point, but if he wants it to stick, a lesson is required.
He knows how to teach. He had the most brutal teacher of them all. Sometimes, she even tended his wounds. She never apologized. It is not in her nature, not then, and not now.
Lucanis opts for one of Caterina’s more terrifying, but bloodless, lessons. He flicks his sword against the boy’s collar, cutting the fabric a mere whisper from his throat, but not harming him. “Go.”
The boys scramble up and run out of the market, drawing more attention when they collide with shoppers. Lucanis watches them escape. He’s not concerned about them escaping and returning to Illario. The Crows keeping watch will be on them soon enough. The boys will break in record time, and if either of them show skill, one of the allied houses will take them, break them, and remake them into more agreeable and loyal Crows. The Santos boy might make a book spy, especially if that hand doesn’t heal correctly.
Either way, Illario loses two minions. It won’t matter to Illario. He’ll find replacements for the boys within the week, and within a month, Lucanis will be playing this game all over again. He is tired of it, but he knows Illario is enjoy his crumbs of power.
Better the rat we know, Spite says.
Illario’s up to his familiar tricks of creating small annoying problems just so he can sow the seeds for greater chaos. He couldn’t burn the Crows, but he can still ruffle feathers. He has a few individual allies among the houses, but they aren’t willing to share their limited power with him. Without any influence, Illario collects the weak and desperate, mostly boys born illegitimately to noble families with only distant proximity to the Crows. He is attempting to build a shadow version of House Dellamorte, to regain what he thinks is his, but he cannot build a house from sea-waterlogged bricks, nor from his own broken pride.
Illario promises these boys funds and support he can never provide, lies from the moment he says ‘hello,’ and then he sends them out to die or be maimed by the Crows. He’s bold to start sending them after Lucanis on their own, with little training or skill. He learned quite a bit from the Venatori, including how to use people to his advantage.
Lucanis feels Spite like a second layer of muscle beneath his skin. One of these days, we will kill Cousin-Crow. We will kill his minions.
There won’t be a next time from those two, Lucanis assures his demon silently.
Spite snarls softly. Cousin-Crow. He will make a mistake.
He will. Lucanis sheathes his sword. Remember, someone will kill him. It doesn’t have to be us.
Could be Grandmother-Crow.
Lucanis smiles faintly. Caterina has more reason to kill Illario than Lucanis does, and the only thing staying her hand is her respect for the seat of First Talon, and her love for her favorite grandson. Truly, she doesn’t care what happens to Illario. Lucanis knows that. He can’t honestly say he cares what becomes of his cousin, but he’s not the same man Illario condemned to death by Venatori hands.
You will fall again, cousin. I won’t be there to catch you or to clean up after you. I don’t have to kill you, but I can make you suffer just by existing. I can live, I can thrive, and that will be the worst punishment for you, because you cannot hurt me ever again.
He has no one, Spite whispers. We have all we need. We have us. We have our Rook.
Viago interrupts Lucanis’s silent conversation. “You should have killed them.”
“Maybe.”
“Your nonchalance will get you killed,” Viago says. “Or give Illario a way back into your good graces.”
“Not happening.”
“You say that now,” Viago argues. “What about in another year? Three? Five? What then?”
“That’s in three or five years, Viago.”
Viago scowls. “What will make you worry?”
“When Illario stops hiring boys barely old enough to shave and sends a real assassin after me.”
“He has.”
“Has he?”
“He sent Ducault and Forrester after you six months ago.”
“Ah. Yes. Rook and I killed them.”
Viago grimaces. “Point taken.” He adjusts his gloves. “I don’t know what the hell you were thinking when you forgave him. You should’ve killed him.”
“Probably.”
“You always say that,” Viago complains. “What if another Talon brings it up?”
“Then I’ll say ‘probably’ and be done with it.”
Lucanis isn’t surprised by Viago’s challenge. He accepts the judgements and baffled sneers of his fellow Talons, all wondering just what in every hell known to Thedas was Lucanis even thinking when he forgave Illario. At the time, Lucanis was barely back to feeling in full control of his body and mind, only a scant few weeks of full sanity under his belt, and he was just so Maker-damned tired of fighting Illario’s one-sided war. Lucanis had a real war to fight, and Illario was in the way.
Lucanis stopped caring about his cousin’s efforts over a year ago. If Illario were truly serious about killing Lucanis, he’d do the job himself. Instead, he sends older Crows with already fractured wings, untested children, and the occasional skilled assassin who seems oddly relieved to die. Illario has learned a little too well from the Venatori, and if Lucanis hadn’t already resolved not to care about any of it, he’d consider doing more than he already has.
He calls to Viago. “Let’s see if Giorgio has any knives.”
“Do you need another one?” Viago complains. “You’ll run out of places to put them eventually.”
“I’m not shopping for me.”
“Then why did you buy one from Keller?”
“A cheap knife has its uses,” Lucanis says.
“A cheap knife will get you killed,” Viago mutters. “Or engaged, apparently.”
“That was not a proposal, but I’m glad to have your approval.”
Viago grumbles. “I expect you to ask permission before you propose.”
“I will not propose with a cheap knife, Viago, you can rest assured of that.”
“Lucanis,” Viago says slowly, his patience clearly fraying. “I am begging you, from one man to another, use a bloody ring when you propose. Not a fucking knife.”
Lucanis smiles. “I’d use a dagger to propose.”
Viago groans. “And now I’m sure you will tell me the difference between a knife and a dagger.”
“You don’t know?”
“Lucanis, I will poison your coffee.”
Spite hisses, We’ll smell it first.
Lucanis grins. “Not so long as I have an advantage, you won’t.”
Viago makes a foul face. “I thought we agreed not to talk about that,” he hisses.
“Did we?”
“Stop enjoying this,” Viago complains. “You used to be miserable and humorless. I beg you to go back to being miserable and humorless.”
“And break Rook’s heart?” Lucanis smiles.
Viago scowls at him. “If you do that, I will kill you.”
“Then I suppose I will not go back to being miserable and humorless.”
“Ugh,” Viago complains.
Viago does an awful lot of complaining. Lucanis doesn’t mind. Viago complaining is a sign that all is right with the world. As Teia says, a day without a Viago complaint is a day where everything and anything that can go wrong will go spectacularly awry.
They reach Giorgio’s stall. The weapons merchant has several pieces on his table. Lucanis inspects them until Spite alerts him. That one. On the end. Steel. Lyrium. Spell-knife.
Lucanis picks it up. The knife is steel with a thin line of lyrium built into the blade, just above the grip. Giorgio, the merchant, smiles approvingly. “Lovely, no? I have a new vendor who contracts with a smith house in Orzammar. The lyrium is muted, not really functional for most.” Girogio chuckles. “Now if a Crow-mage got their hands on it, that would be a different story.”
Lucanis checks the blade’s balance. It’s perfect and it will suit Rook’s evolving style. He can picture her wearing it hidden at the back of her belt, her long vest-coat covering it until she needs it. The lyrium will shimmer when she channels lightning through the knife, and he will lose focus for a few seconds while he admires her in her element.
Spite purrs, Pretty.
Lucanis agrees. “How much?” he asks the merchant.
Giorgio names a price.
Lucanis counts out the gold without a second thought.
Viago grumbles, “Well at least it’s quality.”
Giorgio grins. “Is that a note of appreciation I heard, Viago? Does Andarateia need a new blade? You cannot disappoint your partner, you know.”
Viago sighs and inspects the table. “Do you have something with a ruby in the pommel? She likes rubies.”
Lucanis laughs.
“Shut up, Lucanis,” Viago grumbles.
Lucanis refuses.
Viago selects a steel dagger with a polished ruby cabochon embedded in the pommel. He tests the weight, catches Lucanis watching him, and repeats his order for Lucanis to shut up. The dagger is perfect, Teia will love it. “It is your fault I am spending money,” Viago complains, while Giorgio takes the knife to wrap it up.
Lucanis smiles. As long as Viago complains, then all is right with the world.