Alistair stood with Sorcha under the dripping eaves of the simple wooden buildings in the Trevinter quartier of Val Royeaux thanking the Maker that he had packed several waxed burlap capes for the trip to Orlais.
“I thought,” he said to Sorcha who was standing next to him her favourite silverite splint mail concealed by an identical cape, “You said the weather would be good here this time of year...”
Sorcha shrugged, “This is Val Royeaux, who can say?” she replied, “anything can happen here and does...”
“You were born near here?” he asked.
“Just a few blocks down, in that direction,” she pointed to the east.
“Interesting neighbourhood,” he remarked, taking in the tiny rough timber buildings no more than three stories high, with overhanging slate roofs, little balconies and bamboo blinds. They were on the crest of a steep hill and looking down as far as the eye could see there was nothing but similar buildings. In the opposite direction, looking to the west, he could see the spires and delicate needle towers of the Grand Cathedral sited on the highest hill in Val Royeaux, piercing the grey sky.
“This is a bohemian quartier,” says Sorcha pronouncing quartier the proper way, kar’tje, “appearances can be deceptive, some of these buildings look quite exquisite inside. Some of the people here aren’t particularly poor... and this is one of the sights of Orlais,” she says gesturing towards the flow of mostly young people passing in front of them.
It was early Saturday afternoon and all of them were heading in one direction, towards the west and the more prosperous areas of the city where they would provide the evening’s entertainment for the city’s wealthier inhabitants. Most of them were wearing darkish capes but occasionally they could catch a glimpse of some unexpected finery underneath, most were carrying things, bulky bags, rucksacks and instrument cases that obviously contained harps, lutes and accordions. Some, often the better looking, were suspiciously empty handed, or carried just a flimsy fan. They were all, even the males, wearing crude wooden platforms tied to their more elegant footwear so this did not get
spattered by the mud of the unpaved thoroughfare and many were having difficulty coping with their balance.
Alistair, glad for his unfussy, Fereldan boots, felt slightly sorry for them.
~~...~~
He and Anora had arrived in Orlais two days ago on an official visit. They had been received by empress Celene in
her beautiful palace and then been the guests of honour at an evening banquet.
Alistair had expected to be overawed and he was; the food the drink, the exquisite clothes and manners displayed by everybody. He was very happy to discover that Anora and he had been automatically allocated separate sleeping quarters and also that his room was somewhat simpler and plainer that some of the others he had seen. He decided that Celene must have very reliable sources of information and, even more importantly, knew how to use then.
On the ship over he had agreed with Anora that she would be escorted by Lawler, his usual bodyguard and sparring partner, a very able rogue who hailed from Denerim, whereas he would use Sorcha, a native Orlesian and fellow grey
warden.
Sorcha and he went back somewhat, they had met a few years ago shortly after the Blight in circumstances that could only be described as ‘strained’. Sorcha was not the name she had been born with or the name she had used back then. In any event, he had talked to her in some detail on the trip over and made clear her that he also expected her, to some extent, to be his eyes and ears around the palace.
After the banquet the first evening she had escorted him to his bedroom.
“So what are their first impressions of us?” he asked her pulling off his boots.
“They are intrigued...” said Sorcha,
“Explain” he said lying back.
“They think of Fereldans as a bit old fashioned and a bit fuddy-duddy, and here you are, Alistair and Anora not making any pretence of living together as man and wife. To them that seems disconcertingly modern and breaks the image that they had of Ferelden before...”
“Is that good?”
“I would say that anything that intrigues them is good,” said Sorcha, “it creates interest a certain cachet... and of course, there is your choice of escorts. Everybody above a certain status in the service wanted to talk to me this evening,” she said. “Naturally they all wanted to know what you were like in bed and... Some other things...”
“So what did you tell them?”
“As we discussed... I was somewhat coy.”
“Good.”
“One thing, it also seems taken for granted that the Queen is involved with Lawler... and they find that extremely intriguing, too.”
“Do you think Anora is aware of this?”
“Alistair, she would be very stupid if she were not, and Anora is anything but stupid... But why are you concerned about appearances, impressions?”
“We, I mean Ferelden, is in debt to Orlais and we need more credit for grain, ask yourself, Sorcha, who would you lend more money to, someone fuddy-duddy or someone with cachet?”
“Hmm” Sorcha thought that over. “In the spirit of things,” she said, running her hand over the bleached blond stubble on her head, “if I had hair to muss before leaving this room or a dress to disarrange rather than this armour… Perhaps I would do so…”
~~...~~
“It is a pity it rained,” Sorcha said under the eaves, “it is usually much gaudier... As for this new fashion...” She was referring to the fact that women had taken to wearing trouser suits, dark trouser suits offset by low-cut white or brightly coloured blouses and simple haircuts, “when I lived here, you should have seen the gaily hued gowns and the
elaborate hairstyles...”
Alistair did not mind so much. He found the tight breeches and bolero jackets rather sexy especially from the back and what the blouses revealed far more alluring than what some of the dresses may have covered.
As they watched one of the young women dropped her bag and wobbling dangerously on her platforms appeared to have some difficulty picking it up. Since no-one around her paid any attention, Alistair hurried forward retrieved it for her.
“Mlle are you all right?” he asked in his slightly accented Orlesian as he handed it to her, because, frankly, she looked very unwell, her face was thin and pinched, her eyes looked slightly reddened and her dark blond hair was stringy
and lank and yet the rain had stopped over half an hour ago. She put out a hand and steadied herself using his shoulder, smiling weakly.
“I am fine,” she replied, she said in a hoarse voice, taking the rather heavy bag from him, “thank you so much...”
Alistair returned to Sorcha’s side. Following the girl with his eyes as she disappeared in the throng he said, “She looked as though she was running a fever...” Sorcha’s expression changed slightly but she made no comment.
They were just about to turn to go when a child came running up to them and shoved a piece of parchment into Alistair’s hand and then quickly ran away again. He scanned it and handed it to Sorcha. “It appears to be an invitation to a house of entertainment...”
“Aren’t you lucky?” said Sorcha.
“I am?” he said sounding not too convinced.
“Well how many people around here do you see being handed invites?” she asked.
“Yes but I’m the only one that looks like a punter... And I bet I look foreign with the boots.”
“Nothing ventured, nothing gained,” remarked Sorcha.
“Let’s just leave...”
“Not feeling adventurous today, Alistair? As I said before, it is almost de rigour for foreign dignitaries to take in some of the local colour. Orlesians can get a little touchy about that kind of thing…”
“Adventurous gets you dead in some parts.” He paused, “Oh all right, but if it’s sordid or poky, we leave...”
“Of course.”
Alistair carefully read the address and following the haphazard numbering they discovered it belonged to a house a few doors down on the opposite side of the street.
“Aha,” said Sorcha, “they scoped you... You were right. Sometimes they scan the street for likely clients, they must have thought you were prime.”
They walked down a narrow passageway that separated the house from one of its neighbours and arrived at a small back yard.
“Remember the rules of these establishments...” said Sorcha who had been through them with him previously. “You pay up front, nominally for wine and entertainment which is usually music, song and witty conversation... If you require anything else, you must ask with politesse[/i] and then it will be explained to you what else is available. It is considered a gross breach of etiquette to try and kiss the hostess, for example, if you have not previously clarified
your expectations with her with her and she has given her consent...”
“As if I would...” he said.
Sorcha rapped on the panelled door. It was opened by a very large young man with a broad face and long blond hair in a thick plait wearing copper mail. Sorcha showed him the parchment and his face broke into a smile and he gestured for them to come inside. They entered a small reception room with a couch, some stuffed chairs and a low table.
There was a staircase at the bottom of the room leading up to a small interior balcony.
“I am Jerome,” said the young man placing his hand on his chest and bowing.
Sorcha and Alistair murmured greetings in Orlesian.
Jerome then turned and called up, “Mme we have visitors.”
A very young woman with a blond pageboy shoulder length haircut, a sweet face, a slightly turned up nose, and a wide mouth came onto the balcony and looked down at them smiling. “Welcome to my house this day...” she said, “how may I assist you?” she asked making eye contact with both Alistair and Sorcha. She was wearing one of the fashionable black trouser suits and a white low cut blouse with lacy frills around the neck and cuffs.
Sorcha glanced at Alistair and he nodded.
“The gentleman would like to enjoy the pleasures of your house.” Said Sorcha.
“Only the gentleman?” enquired the girl raising her neat eyebrows.
“Maker, that is tempting...” muttered Alistair in Fereldan.
“Only the gentleman today.” clarified Sorcha, looking at him from the corner of her eye.
Alistair removed his third best sword, the knife from his right boot and his cape and handed them all to Sorcha who smiling in turn passed them to Jerome. He then went up the little staircase.
The girl who only came up to the centre of his chest lightly bobbed her head and smiling with that wide mouth of hers said, “I am Chantal. Welcome to my house.”
“Sandro,” said Alistair and they air kissed.
Chantal made a gesture towards his feet and Alistair removed his boots and left them on a rack by the door. He turned and looked down, “see you later, Sorcha,” he said looking down, “be good now.”
Sorcha grinned up at him. Chantal opened the door and he entered.
He found himself in a little parlour with a highly waxed dark oak wooden floor. To his right was a very large window with a pulled up blind that gave way to a little balcony overlooking the street. One glance though the window told him that he was probably right as there was a perfect view of the house opposite in front of which he and Sorcha had been standing barely ten minutes earlier.
In the centre of the room was a pale wood lacquered table with five low but comfortable seats set around it. Chantal
waved and he took one of the seats and she sat opposite him. Just behind her was a stand that held no less
than four lutes of different size and finish.
“Is it your first time in Orlais?” she enquired. Now he was sitting in front of her Alistair noticed that there was something shiny in her mouth, for a moment that distracted him from the smooth swell of her breasts
“It is,” he said.
“What do you think of it?” Chantal asked.
“Orlais is full of beautiful things.” replied Alistair looking at her. Up close, he noticed that her perfume was warm and spicy with a dash of fresh citrus. It suited her.
“Your Orlesian is very good and you know how to faire la bise.”
“I am sure you flatter me.”
“Oh no, but if anyone started the flattery it was you…” she said, “would you like some refreshment?” she asked
“Yes.”
“I have an excellent blanc.”
“Thank you.”
She rose and from the shelves behind her brought over a carafe and two crystal glasses she poured for them both. “Salut” she said holding out her glass and he gently knocked his to hers and took a sip. He was expecting something sweet and sticky but was pleasantly surprised to find it dry and refreshing.
“Now,” said Chantal, “shall I sing something for you?”
“That would be nice...”
“What would you like?”
“Do you know any songs about Ferelden?”
Chantal’s brow creased a little, “I know some songs from Ferelden,” she said, “but not specifically about Ferelden, I do apologise for my ignorance.”
She picked up the second lute and began to sing. Alistair thought that perhaps Leliana’s voice was slightly better,
slightly deeper, and more modulated, but there was an air of deep sweetness in Chantal’s timbre and her enunciation appeared to be particularly good, probably the product of intensive training, he thought. As she sang he noticed that glint in her mouth again.
The Honeybee
Oh, fair damsel of the garden,
Arlessa of honeysuckle and rose,
I humbly beg your gracious pardon
For the offense that here arose.
Surely your work is far too vital
To be interrupted by one like me
I am in no way entitled
To earn the notice of a honeybee.
I was a fool to pluck that flower
For my lady fair. On my honour I
Swear to bring you dozens more within the hour
If you give me leave to try.
Listen traveler, if you would walk the garden paths some spring:
Mind that you don't trespass, for the gardeners do sting.
Looking through his lashes, so as to avoid rudely staring, he came to the conclusion that her tongue had been pierced and what he was seeing was the twinkle of a tiny jewel. He had heard of such piercings but he had never seen someone with one, let alone a slip of a girl. It must be very painful.
Her clear voice, the crisp wine, her perfume and her prettiness made an enthralling combination and he found himself wishing that he could sit here in front of her like this forever, certainly it had been a long time since he had felt so
content.
When she finished he said “bravo.” and she responded by performing a little mock bow over the lute.
“Now,” she said, “what brings you to Orlais?” she said idly strumming a few of the chords.
“I am part of the trade delegation that has come with the King and Queen...” replied Alistair smoothly.
“A merchant.” Chantal said, Alistair nodded. “What do you sell?”
“Marbaris,” replied Alistair suddenly improvising.
“Marb..., you mean those dogs?”
“Yes,” replied Alistair.
Chantal grinned widely, “But what market is there for such dogs in Orlais? They are not even good looking...”
“Well, they do say that beauty is in the eye of the beholder, but aside from that Marbaris are very special dogs, very special...” he assured her.
“Really?” she asked sounding somewhat sceptical.
“Why yes, of course. This job you do... Can it not be... a little dangerous sometimes?”
“Are you trying to scare me here?” and she moved her petite face close to his, probably just to show that she was not scared at all. Alistair wondered for a moment... and then he recalled the rules of the house.
“Your clients...” he said.
“I have Jerome.”
“I have no doubt Jerome is very good,” but he did, because he had noticed that Jerome, like Chantal, was very young. Alistair was willing to bet he could take Jerome in a one-on-one fight and he was certain that Sorcha could too,
especially because Sorcha was not above using her feminine wiles and he was certain that Jerome would easily fall for those, if only through inexperience. “But Jerome is downstairs and you are up here... should a client get nasty... How would you call him?”
Chantal put her fingers to her lips.
“Hang on,” said Alistair, “you call him and then we count how long it takes him to get here...”
Chantal put her fingers to her mouth again and emitted a very high-pitched whistle. Almost immediately from below there was the sound of panicked movement followed a few minutes later by that of heavy footsteps thundering up the small staircase. Alistair stood and stepped to one side, Chantal stood too and then the door flew open a rather out of breath Jerome stood framed in it brandishing a large, two-handed sword. “Mme...” he said. Alistair was relieved to
see Sorcha right behind him, also with one of her swords drawn.
“Thank you, Jerome” said Chantal calmly.
For a moment, Jerome looked a little confused, then he shot Alistair an enquiring glance, Alistair turned his hands up in front of him to show him they were empty. Jerome, still looking puzzled, turned to leave and Sorcha raised her eyebrows at Alistair who responded by smiling, and she too left.
“Eleven seconds,” said Alistair quietly once the door had closed. “You could be dead, Chantal...”
“Pah!” said Chantal, “but how would a Marbari change that?”
“Because he would be in here with you...” said Alistair. “Obviously, your clients would object to having a large armed man in the same room as them, it would kill your trade, but a dog? Curled up on a red velvet pillow with a red ribbon around his neck? Think on that.”
Chantal grinned impishly as if picturing it. “I could call him Frou-Frou or Souris...”
“You get the idea... and he would tear the throat out of anyone who so much as dared to lay a finger on you, in a violent way, I mean, of course; because Marbaris imprint to their masters or their mistresses and they are extremely loyal and protective And he would love you, only you...”
Chantal settled down on her side of the table again. “How does a merchant know so much about... such things?” she asked.
“I was a soldier once,” said Alistair, and realising he may need some extra cover should things get interesting later, he was beginning to have a good feeling about that, and added, “I also fought in the militia during the Blight.”
She poured more wine for them both. They drank silently, there was a rumble of thunder in the distance and suddenly
clouds must have broken over them because this was followed by the patter of rain on the slate roof.
“Would you like another song?” asked Chantal.
“Very much,” replied Alistair, “a song about rain, perhaps?”
Chantal smiled quietly and to sing began a sad song about a fickle lover’s words being like the rain. As he listened Alistair realised that her sweet voice was strangely adapted to sad themes, he began to feel very moved again.
When she finished she made to get up, perhaps to set some lights because the room had become somewhat dark with the encroaching storm, before she could do so, Alistair leaned over and asked quietly, “can I kiss you, Chantal?”
“Of course,” she replied. Chantal leaned towards him and their lips met, hers felt so very soft against his, he put his hand on her smooth cheek and closed his eyes. Their tongues met tentatively at first and then they began to play with each other somewhat. The piercing gave Chantal a distinct advantage, she would use it to graze his tongue slightly and then move away very coyly, and he would strive to seek the jewel and corner it and make it his but he never quite achieved that...
Finally, she broke the kiss and he sunk back to his side of the table, very aroused, and said, “that was...” unable to complete the phrase.
Again, she went to put on lights and he said, “Please no lights yet, another song? One about stars?” he was finding the darkness, the sound of the rain and her singing extremely restful.
Chantal sang a song that he realised was a version of the tale of Alindra and her Soldier that he had first heard from Leliana. It was one of his favourite stories, the tale of two lovers torn apart by their belonging to different social classes who were reunited again by the Maker, after death as stars in the heavens, as a reward for the purity of their
mutual affection.
After she had finished they kissed again but this time when she pulled her lips away from his, she got up, took Alistair by the hand, and led him to the back room.
“Now,” she said softly, “you must allow me to set some lights here but I will not set many...”
Chantal lit five little oil lamps around the bed and then returned to him.
There was some more kissing and they helped each other undress. There was some interesting foreplay involving her piercing, the hardness of the little diamond contrasting with the softness of her mouth and tongue on him. Alistair broached the question as to whether it had hurt her to have it done.
Chantal, who lay beside him, looked a little pensive for a moment, “Don’t most worthwhile things hurt at some stage or other?” she said tracing with her index finger the ridge of a scar on his thigh.
“Well…” he hesitated, distracted once again by her touch.
“Was it not worth the pain of your acquiring these scars for you to end the Blight?” she insisted patiently.
“Perhaps,” Alistair replied, taking her hand to his mouth and kissing it and then placing it back on his thigh, “perhaps.”
Although they were virtually strangers, their lovemaking was slow and unhurried and extremely pleasurable. It had been several months since Alistair had last made love and he had always found chastity both a chore and a challenge. When he came shortly after her, quietly groaning and juddering in her warmth, his release seemed to go on for longer than usual and his enjoyment was that more intense.
Afterwards, Alistair pulled Chantal against him, wrapped his arms protectively around her, and, probably still tired from the journey, promptly fell asleep. He woke up some twenty minutes or so later to find her still within his arms, and, feeling slightly embarrassed, apologised.
Chantal smiled up at him, “you are covered for the evening, you know.”
She then went to the other room and came back in with another of the lutes, propped herself up on her side on the bed and started tuning it fastidiously, her fingers loosening and tensing the chords, shaking her head when the sound was not just so. Alistair watched her fascinated. Eventually, satisfied it had been correctly adjusted, lying on her
back, one leg bent, she played another song, unsolicited:
Ashes after fire,
All your passion died,
Now you stand before the pyre
With Sadness as your bride.
Well, perhaps it sounded better in Orlesian.
There were other stanzas describing Sadness’ trousseau and attire, her veil, her dead eyed bridesmaids, her bouquet of tears etc. Alistair lay back with his hands behind his head, the song and the evening as a whole, made him think about himself and what he needed to be truly happy, something he had not allowed himself to do for a long time.
Eventually he decided he had indulged himself quite enough so he got up and asked Chantal where he could clean himself, Chantal offered to assist him and smiling, he refused.
Afterwards, Chantal, who had wrapped herself in a beautiful silk robe, escorted him downstairs. Formal farewells were exchanged. He left a very generous tip.
As Sorcha and he made their way back to the palace Alistair felt as if he were walking on air, surrounded by a bubble of happiness, totally disengaged from what was currently about him.
“Four hours, you were four hours Alistair, what were you doing…” said Sorcha, Alistair did not deign to reply, he vaguely thought the answer was somewhat obvious, “I had to keep that Jerome company. He started telling me the story of his life and I had to pretend to be interested, nice enough lad, but so boring…”
~~...~~
Alistair was hoping the following day would be somewhat of a lull in the official activities as he was feeling uncharacteristically tired and there was nothing scheduled for the morning and only a reception involving Empress Celene’s immediate family in the afternoon. However, it turned out that Celene’s immediate family was extensive, and she was immensely proud of them all so even the simple meeting, greeting and air kissing was tedious in the extreme. As with any activity that challenged his relatively short attention span, Alistair found himself carrying it out automatically.
Celene herself, standing just behind Anora and he was making the introductions, “… and these are the children of my youngest, Antoine: Madelaine, Leonor, and the one who says she never, ever, intends to get married, naughty Chantal…”
Alistair woke up with a jolt. There she was, turned up nose and all, although it seemed she removed the tongue piercing for official occasions.
“Bonjour ‘Sandro’” said Chantal and then laughed no doubt at the stunned expression on his face. Alistair sighed internally. Anora was already looking daggers at him although Celene herself behind him seemed highly amused,
her blue eyes twinkling.
“Chantal,” he said, “how charming to meet you… again.”
They air kissed and Chantal whispered quickly into his ear, “Vous étiez si doux hier…,” her victory complete.
“Shame on you, Alistair,” Anora chided him a little later, “flirting with Celene’s granddaughters, that kind of behaviour could have consequences, you know…”
In reply, Alistair could only smile weakly and limit himself to saying, “Anora, my dear, it wasn’t quite like that…”
He needed to talk to Sorcha.
TBC
Modifié par Maria13, 24 juillet 2010 - 01:42 .
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