Twenty-One: Nathaniel
The whole thing had gotten completely out of hand. Nathaniel sighed and tried to object for what had to be the fiftieth time since this plan had been suggested.
"It's simply too dangerous, Leliana. I won't allow you – or anyone else – to be hurt in my stead. This is my problem—"
"And this is how you're going to solve it, yes? You're going to get help from others who have more specific experience in this area."
He turned to the King, hoping for some support. "Your Majesty, surely you don't think—"
Cailan laughed. "Don't look at me for help. I spent most of a year bored to tears in Redcliffe while people fought and died for me, all for the greater good, or so they tell me. You'll get absolutely no sympathy from me!"
Leliana giggled. "Poor man." She sobered a little and turned to Nate earnestly. "Zevran is already in place anyway. We can't stop now without the conspirators realising that we're onto them. It's too late, my Lord."
"Look," Aedan said, "we've got this. But it won't work without you. Zev knows what he's doing, and I'll be watching too. But we need you on board. Are you with me?"
Nathaniel sighed reluctantly. "Not that I apparently have any choice in the matter...but fine. Let's go."
The plan, such as it was, was simple. The problem was that it put Zevran in danger, and the worry made Nate's stomach ache. Not that the assassin was weak or incompetent – he was a professional; Nathaniel just wasn't comfortable with someone else taking his risks.
But he'd been over-ruled – and now he would have to live with the consequences.
–
Leliana was called away on a last-minute delivery; dutifully she mounted her horse and rode out of camp in a rush.
Playing his part, Nathaniel approached the command tent alone. After a few minutes of quiet discussion, he stood meekly while Cailan shouted at him; for his part, the King was enjoying the theatre of it and worked himself into a right froth, upbraiding Nathaniel for some imaginary mistake. Finally creeping out of the tent, face red with suppressed laughter – though he hoped anyone watching would assume it was shame or anger – Nate strolled over to the Wardens' fire, like he did every evening. This time, though, instead of sitting alone as he usually did, he accepted the dwarf's offer of a sympathy drink. Oghren was crudely amusing, almost always drunk – though apparently recently had become less...sloppy was the word Sierra had used for it – and constantly challenged those around him to drinking contests. Faking his own shame, grunting something about needing a drink after the day he'd had, Nate took up the challenge and proceeded to gulp something from the flask the dwarf held out. Afterwards, they took turns swigging from that and the bottle of Antivan rum that Nate produced.
After a while, Aedan joined them around the fire, commiserating with Nathaniel about his public fall from favour. They drank a toast together, and Nate drank noisily. Over the course of the next few hours, he continued to drink steadily; the dwarf eventually moved on, but he left his flask behind and Nathaniel continued taking swigs. He became progressively louder and more vocal as he drank, cursing the king, the darkspawn, his father, and anyone else he could think of – before becoming maudlin and degenerating into sloppy, drunken declarations of affection, and finally falling into a sodden heap, sobbing on an amused Aedan's shoulder.
"All right, my friend, I think it's time for you to go sleep it off," Aedan laughed, pulling the flask out of a protesting Nate's hands. "Come on, up you get."
Doing a rather convincing impression of a dead body, Nate flopped to the ground as Aedan got up, and the Warden groaned as he tried unsuccessfully to pull the nobleman to his feet. After several more attempts, Aedan finally grabbed the first sober-appearing soldier who walked by the fire.
"You there! Give me a hand, would you?" Aedan asked.
"Yes, my Lord...Maker, what's that smell? Augh!"
Between them, the Warden and the soldier managed to heave the pungent, uncooperative Nathaniel to his feet and support him in an upright position; it took several minutes to half-drag, half-carry him the short distance across camp to his small tent. They had to recruit a third person – another nearby soldier – to help shove him into the tent, and the cursing could be heard all across the camp as they wrestled him inside and tried to loosen his clothes.
Finally Aedan declared it was close enough; leaving the snoozing Nate on top of his bedroll, fully clothed but at least with his boots off, Aedan and the two soldiers crawled out of the tent and went their separate ways. It was late; the patrolling guards on watch were far from the nobles' tents, and most of the torches had been extinguished. To all outward appearances, the camp went to sleep.
Twenty-Two: Leliana
Leliana yawned, fighting the urge to stretch. Unlike Zevran, she'd never trained for stealth or ambush; her strengths ran to seduction and manipulation. She'd never practiced lying in wait, motionless, for a target.
But there was no one else she'd trust to do this, no one with her aim – or her motivation to do the job well. So she stifled a sigh and remained still, watching over the darkened camp like a hawk. She was grateful for Anders; he'd known a spell to temporarily sharpen her vision, so it seemed as though it was mid-day, instead of the dark, moonless night it actually was.
She had watched her friends all evening, tracking the movements of the soldiers around them diligently. She had waited, unnoticed, while Aedan had poured Nathaniel into his tent. And now she watched as a dark shape detached itself from the shadows of another tent and slipped silently towards her sleeping...whatever he was. Lover wasn't the word – yet, if she had anything to say about it – but she didn't have another to describe what Nathaniel meant to her.
But all of that would be moot if she allowed her attention to wander at the critical moment. She rolled her eyes at herself – Sierra was going to bust a gut laughing at her when she found out, Leliana knew – and sighted down the length of her nocked arrow. The soldier from before, the one Aedan had recruited to help him, paused outside of Nate's tent, glancing surreptitiously around to see if anyone was nearby. Leliana had been watching long enough to know that no simple soldier had any reason to be in this part of the camp so late at night. He moved gracefully – too gracefully. Leliana drew her arm back, holding the bow steady, arrow poised to fire.
This is it.
The soldier slipped silently inside the tent. At first nothing happened, but then there was a muffled shout. Nathaniel's tent lit up with the blue glow of an arcane lamp, and Leliana could see the silhouette of three male bodies grappling in the confined space. With an oath that echoed across the camp, a narrow blade emerged from the side of the tent and slid down quickly, tearing a rent in the fabric. Leliana waited, breathlessly, finally loosing the arrow she held as an arm and then an entire, unfamiliar upper body emerged from the hole. Her aim was perfect, piercing through the leather gauntlet the soldier wore and pinning his forearm to the ground with an audible thunk. The soldier let out a pained grunt as he tried to yank his arm off the arrow.
