Redeemers: Part 3 of the Makers Series

Chapter 1:

Ataashi stood on a dark street, leaning against a rough wooden wall, in a particularly rundown corner of Minrathous. It seemed his contact had a penchant for the dramatics of his trade – which was basically a lit beacon stating the consumer had never done this before. Most of his contractors preferred to meet in private rooms in some tavern. Generally, the chosen locale was well and away from their manors, as if they thought that would be enough to disguise their identities. Too bad for them Ataashi was a man with rules. He never took a job until he knew with whom he was dealing. Not that they knew he knew, most of the time. It was better to have information than reputation. Though, he supposed, preferably one would have both.

A cloaked figure turned the corner and approached him. "A nug in summer," he said, leaving the ending open for response. It was the first half of the call phrase Ataashi had given to his handler for this meeting. The process was ridiculous and entirely too dramatic, like something out of a cheap play. It was meant to confirm his identity. There were easier ways, better ways, but the Vintish did like their theatrics. He, like many of his colleagues, enjoyed crafting the calls and responses to be as ridiculous as possible.

Ataashi leaned, casually tipping himself forward to stand before the cloaked man. "Tans his own hide," he said, book-ending the call. "What can I do for you?"

The figure cleared his throat uneasily. "Sulla Cervidus," he said in a tight voice. "Do you know him?"

"I know of him, "Ataashi replied with a shrug.

The consumer shifted from foot to foot. He played with the well-manicured fingernails which tipped his soft, pale hands. Those were the hands of a man who had never done a day of work in his life. Judging from how restless he was, Ataashi guessed that life had been short as well. Most of the seasoned magisters were old hands at contracting assassinations – very business-like, casual even. Just another transaction. The boy, on the other hand, was pitching his voice low, trying to sound older, or maybe disguise his identity. The assassin couldn't quite tell which. Regardless, those traits alone put the boy on a short list. Only seven magisters had been newly appointed by the Archon, having recently come of age, their fathers stepping down in spirit, at least, if not in actuality. If Ataashi coupled that information with the gold-trimmed navy cloak the kid wore? That list was cut down to two – Vel Vestinus or Herius Iulianus – whose house colors fit the bill.

"I'd like him … taken care of…" His voice went up on the end, making a question of the request.

Ataashi let out a menacing chuckle, let it roll low and opaque like fog from the sea. The boy jumped slightly. It was terribly satisfying. "Forgive me," he said gruffly, "but you don't sound sure that my services are what you require."

"Ah," the boy stammered, "I-I'm sure."

"You know my reputation, yes?" Ataashi asked. He began circling the boy, like predator and prey. The boy swallowed audibly and managed a nod. His guard was going up, trying to convince himself he was in control. Sooner or later they all fell back on that. "Then you'll know," he said, continuing his prowl, "I don't take just any contract. You'll need to make your case."

The boy nodded again (Maker, could he do anything else?) and reached under his cloak. Ataashi stopped at the boy's back and, before the child had even completed his gesture, pressed the tip of one of his blades to his back, just left of his spine and three fingers above the curve of his backside. The boy froze.

"I am operating," Ataashi said smoothly, "under the impression that you are retrieving some sort of evidence with which you might make your case and not reaching for a weapon. This assumption is the only reason you continue to have no more holes in your body than when you came into this world. Are we clear?"

"You-you're threatening me?" he asked in a voice gone high and loud with panic. It cracked at the end, providing the assassin with the final bit of information he required to complete the puzzle. Only Vel Vestinus was still youth enough for his voice to break – the pubescent give away. The other option, Herius Iulianus, had blossomed into manhood early, and had thusly developed a deep, even baritone.

"Just being cautious," Ataashi replied in a voice that dripped indifference. "In my line of work you're either cautious, or you're dead."

He could feel the boy shaking with anger now, the small tremors vibrating the blade. "My father could have your head if I so much as asked," he spat. The assassin shook his head. Poor boy, more balls than brains.

Ataashi laughed huskily in the boy's ear, as if that attempt at intimidation was the most amusing thing he had heard all night. "He wouldn't even know which head to cut off," he said smugly. He heard the boy draw another deep breath, ready to argue further. Ataashi twisted the dagger slightly and he could see the subtle shift in the boy's stance. His body was flooding with adrenaline, making ready to fight or run. Both of which would likely get the boy dead. Ataashi sighed and sheathed the dagger, sliding it home with the calming, familiar sound of steel on suede. "Calm yourself, Vel of house Vestinus. I am a reasonable man. I know that threat was born of the foolishness of youthful pride. I shall not hold it against you." He returned to stand facing the boy and waited, hand out, for the forgotten evidence.

Vel's free hand lifted and pulled back the hood revealing a young face with generous stubble and an expression of awe. "Who told you," he asked.

Ataashi smirked. "You did, my lord. A dozen different ways." He waggled his fingers. "The evidence?"

Vel looked away, confusion coloring his features, but his hand emerged from the cloak and handed the man a sheaf of papers. Ataashi moved to a nearby window and read them in the dim light which fell from it. He'd give the boy this, he'd done his due diligence. Contained within were a handful of lesser charges, things which would never be brought to bear against a magister, and a single list of names without heading or explanation. He held it out to Vel. "What's this?"

The boy's face went pale, the pink rushing out of his olive skin leaving him looking positively green. "It's a ledger," he said in a wobbling tenor. "A-an accounting."

"Of?" Ataashi asked leadingly. It was a question designed to see how the boy would react more than for information about the paper – he knew what this was. He'd seen his share of Sanguine Slates. They were relics of a time when human lives had been just one more item on a quartermaster's inventory. Largely, the official stance of the Tevinter Imperium was that such lists no longer existed. And of course that was their stance, because even though the entirety of Thedas knew the Vintish indulged in blood magic, the Magisterium still openly condemned and denied it except for uses they deemed "moderate."

In the brevity of the one season he had been taking contracts Ataashi had seen six Slates. The mere sight of this one filled him with righteous anger. It was only thanks to his training that he was able to focus that anger and keep a calm mask of indifference. The minute someone connected the lists to his decisions, with which jobs he accepted, was the minute he'd start seeing forgeries. Low-life members of the Altus would begin presenting him with false Slates looking to buy his expertise for the sole purpose of advancing their own political agenda and standing. Thus far he'd turned down every assignment which had been posed to him in that manner. Tevinter liked to kill people as a means to an end. Ataashi was merely fighting back.

"Is this a confirmed list?" The assassin asked in an unruffled, even timber as he replaced the paper in the sheaf.

Vel nodded. "I only listed the names I could confirm," he assured. "There's a trail for each one. Money paid for silence or trade. You can check for yourself."

"Oh," Ataashi assured, "I will." He tucked the papers under his arm. "Now, why don't you tell me why you want the fourth most influential magister in the capital dead?"

Vel sputtered. "You have the papers!" He floundered. "You know why!"

"Ha," Ataashi huffed, amused. "You can't really think I'm going to believe that? I know you're young kid, but you're not a nug-head." He shook his head at the boy. "No, you have your own agenda or someone is rewarding you for promoting theirs. So…" he trailed off, waiting.

"My first bill is up for a vote," he sighed, confessing. "It's a good one: aqueduct expansion to the Lower Ring. It will reduce disease, offer new work, dispose of refuse, basically all the things we take for granted in the Upper and High rings. Of course, by necessity this will also improve the aqueduct systems in the middle ring. I-it's gained some traction, but the vote is looking like a tie. Sulla Cervidus is the loudest of my opposition. He's bought at least half the votes against me."

Ataashia was familiar with the bill and he had to admit it was a good one. Usually when one of the magisters put forth a bill like this one it was riddled with secret agendas. Things no one wanted to pass, but would for fear of the bad reputation voting against a humanities bill would gain them. This bill was straight forward with no secret clauses which made Magister Cervidus' opposition even more confusing. "Why would anyone oppose a running water bill?" He mused aloud.

"Some of the members of the old guard," Vel said disdainfully, "seem to think if we don't keep the Liberati in squalor they will rise up and put us down."

"Well," Ataashi considered, scratching at the stubble of his jaw, "they do wildly outnumber you."

"So do our plow animals," Vel argued. The assassin hoped the boy was going somewhere pleasant. Comparing people to animals didn't sit well with him. "But we feed and water them, get them care when they are ill or injured, shelter them from the heat… And as such they do their work efficiently and without complaint."

Ataashi hid a smirk behind his hand and feigned deep thinking. The analogy was a tad insulting but at least it was well-intentioned. Most of the Alta wouldn't care about insulting the lower classes without the good intent. Oh, Ataashi thought with wry amusement, I like this kid. "When's the vote," he asked finally.

"Three day's time," Vel replied.

Ataashi let out a soft whistle. "That's short notice. Wrestled with the hard decision of my services did you?" The boy started to object but the assassin waved his hand dismissively. "You know, of course, word of his demise must get to the Court of Magisters with at least eight hours before the vote so his seat can be filled. And I can't guarantee how the new magister will vote. If word of Velius's death does not arrive in time the vote will be cancelled and, since it is fairly obvious you have the best motivation for taking him out, there will be consequences, should that happen."

He saw the boy's face as he spoke. He looked ready to deliver a retort somewhere along the lines of "I know how the Magisterium works!" That was, until Ataashi had mentioned consequences.

Vel gulped, eyes wide and worried. "They'll execute me?"

The assassin could not help the laugh that bubbled out of him, high and short-lived. "Venhedis," he swore. "No! If they executed every magister they suspected of contracting an assassin the Court would be utterly barren. They'll bury your bill, Vel. You won't see it again for a decade and only then if you've won enough favors."

"So, what do I do?" the boy asked. "About making sure news reaches the court in time, I mean. What's to stop his family from hiding the death until it's too late just to spite me?"

Ataashi grinned. "What do you do, Vel? You pay the extra fees and leave it to me. Sulla Cervidus will meet with a very messy, very public accident. His family will not have the opportunity to delay the information's spread."

Vel held out a hand, smiling. "Agreed."

Ataashi smirked. He really did like the boy. He took the offered hand and shook it, firmly, a single time and then dropped it. "You'll pay half to the handler now, half when the job is done." The boy nodded his understanding.

Ataashi turned his back on him and began walking away. He waited until he'd neared the corner and listened for the sound of Vel's feet shifting in the gravel to take their leave before he turned to look over his shoulder and called back, "Oh, and Vel. You're new to the court. I'd advise you to keep your nose as clean as possible. Trust me, you don't want to give someone a reason to bring me a file like this with your name on it." He heard Vel's footsteps stop abruptly, and knew his words had hit home. The boy took his meaning. The file he carried wasn't one of political alliances, or lineages, or money like the files so many assassins took. This file was a file of sins. This was the file that bought Ataashi's interest.

He let it sit in the air between them for a moment. Then he nodded, and resumed his walk. One corner turned and he was gone, little more than another shadow on a poorly-lit street.

VVV

"Vishante kaffas!" Dorian roared as he ploughed through the doors, slamming them behind him. Servants – well, slaves really, though it seemed off, thinking of them as such after so much time in the south – unfazed by his outburst, came out of the woodwork, taking his cape and papers before scurrying away. It was unsettling really. Even though Dorian had grown up with it he still hadn't grown accustomed. He was just glad they knew when to be scarce.

Fitzwilliam had likely known he was coming. The Lenen'hima'sa, that magical tie they shared, had probably alerted him not only to the mage's mood, which had been the first thing they noticed the bond communicated, but also from what direction he was coming and, in a new and exciting turn, how close he was. Yes, the bond was basically broadcasting Dorian's movements to his lover at every turn. Though it was also showing Dorian his. It seemed his Amatus had spent his evening in the slums.

"Bad night at the office?" Fitzwilliam asked, coming forward to embrace him in welcome as he usually did.

"I loathe politics," the mage spat, tossing his gloves, black with intricate blue scrollwork, aside on the darkwood table which sat in the middle of the entryway. "If I have to shake one more greased palm…"

"A lot of bribery tonight?" Fitz inquired, smiling, poking fun, but genuinely interested.

"No," Dorian said, grimacing. "Just a lot of old men using their hands as napkins. I am positively smeared in pig-fat."

Fitzwilliam stopped in his approach and held out his hands, palms up. "On second thought," he joked, "I can wait until you've bathed."

Dorian smirked and strode forward, closing the gap between them and wrapping an arm about Fitz's waist. He pulled their bodies flush and tilted his head down, his own lips brushing lightly across those just below. The kiss was slow and sweet. Dorian could feel the tension easing out of him even as the man in his arms went soft, compliant under his touch. When they parted the mage had to admit he felt better. He always felt better when he could touch Fitz, even if it was brief and clandestine.

"Well," Fitzwilliam was sighing as he rested his cheek on Dorian's shoulder, "you seem clean enough after all."

Dorian chuckled lightly. "Still wouldn't say no to a bath, however."

"Good," Fitz replied. "I had them draw one when I felt you on your way home."

His eyebrows went up at that. "Did you now?" he asked, genuinely astonished. "You were the one in the slums tonight, I'm willing to bet you were in more need of a bath more than I."

"I didn't know you were going to be covered in pork drippings," Fitzwilliam admitted. "But I could feel you fuming. I was hoping the warm water would… soothe you."

Dorian couldn't help the warm smile of affection that crept across his face. The man had likely been out killing someone earlier this evening. But what did he do when he got home? Had a bath drawn for his lover. What odd jumble of pieces made up Fitzwilliam Trevelyan?

Together they moved to the inner chamber and there, reluctantly parted. Fitzwilliam went on into the bathing hollow whilst Dorian moved to the privacy screen and began undressing. Honestly, he didn't use it for the privacy part, he rather liked showing off for Fitzwilliam. Atop the screen, however, was the place to put clothing you wanted the servants to see to, and Maker, did Dorian ever. He was half-temped just to burn them and be done. He was wearing the usual Vintish garb, all layers and leather and black. It was entirely too warm for this climate. He never really noticed it before, but now the south had ruined his tolerance for the heat. And it was just ridiculous anyway. Yes, the Altus were all mages, they could just cast a spell and cool themselves, but what a boring waste of magic.

As he peeled out of the long robe he came to a decision. He was going to have the tailor up soon. He had some ideas about what he wanted made, and fashion had always been a soothing hobby for him. Maker knew he could use a little more of that in his life, and a little less politicking. He'd have Fitz done too. Perhaps mother would even agree to join. She hadn't quite warmed up to Fitzwilliam, though Dorian couldn't figure out why. She swore there was nothing wrong but clearly neither was there something right.

Dorian wrapped the light cotton sheet about his waist and over his shoulder and made his way into the hollow. He expected a bath. What he had not expected were the candles, and the scented oils, and Fitzwilliam, naked, head resting on his hands on the tub's rim beckoning to him with one crooked finger. "Join me, Serah," he purred.

Dorian felt an abrupt clench in his groin at the sight and allowed the sheet to fall. Dorian made his way to the basin. Once his feet had halted he leaned down, looking deeply into those brilliant blue orbs. "Maker, Fitzwilliam," he sighed, smirking, "I love you."

"Damn straight you do," Fitz said with a wink. Looking up at him through those lashes. "Now, get in before it gets cold."

"I'm a mage," he reminded even as he lifted a leg over and did as he was told. "I can warm the water back up."

"And risk another hiccup?" Fitzwilliam asked seriously. It was quite unwelcome. "Then we'd have Inquisitor soup."

Dorian didn't really want to think about that. Something was going on with his magic and it was most disturbing. He wasn't really having trouble with casting, but power regulation had gone a bit… well a bit wonky. He had tried to light a lamp the other day and accidently blasted it with a jet of flame. The glass shattered, sending oil splashing across the floor, which then, of course, ignited as well. He'd put it out in a matter of seconds, smothering the flame simply by vacuuming out the air around it, but that wasn't the point. It shouldn't have happened in the first place.

Dorian sat, submerging himself. Displaced water splashed out over the rim and onto the slatted floor below to be recycled into the grey water for the gardens. He slouched, letting it cover his neck and chin until he was little more than hair, eyes, mustache and nose. He felt sulky.

Fitzwilliam made his way across the huge basin of warm water to come up behind the mage, reaching out and pulling on his shoulders. For a second he thought the man intended to dunk him but instead those hands pulled back, bringing Dorian to rest against a warm, hard chest. Hands slid over his forearms, trailing up his biceps before slipping under his arms to hug him closer.

"I talked to Leliana today," he said as he rested his chin on Dorian's shoulder. "She said they are still getting reports of new rifts opening all over Tevinter. I'm going to have to go have a proper look soon." Dorian grunted something noncommittal in response. He didn't want Fitzwilliam to leave, even for a short time. He was the one bright light in the endless drudgery of the life he had chosen here. "Doe," Fitzwilliam said slowly, a lilt of worry in his voice. "I think something is very wrong."

Dorian nodded his head once. He agreed. His magic had been misbehaving since shortly after their arrival in Tevinter, though they had received information that it had been happening before then too. Something was going on, on a larger scale, but none of his research had turned up any promising leads. Truly, the only real clue they had were the rifts. They had expected them all to close, after the defeat of Coryphaeus, but instead new ones were opening. The strangest part of it all, so far, were the demons. Or lack thereof.

In Ferelden the rifts had poured out demons. The new reports marked only a slight increase in demon activity, though there was a huge jump in other strange sightings and events. Fitzwilliam had hypothesized that the southern rifts had had Coryphaeus behind them, driving the demons out into their world. Essentially, the Inquisitor was of the opinion that the demons had not merely found the rifts and wandered out of them. Dorian wasn't sure if he agreed.

"Leli also plotted the sightings out on a map," Fitz continued. He released the mage from his embrace, moving around behind him, water sloshing noisily. "She says they seem to be localized. There were only a very few outlying plots. Maybe there's some sort of, I don't know, disturbance? Something that's making them appear there." Fitzwilliam turned back, his fingers diving into Dorian's hair. He moaned softly as the man began to lather the soap there, his fingers massaging his scalp.

"Mhm," Dorian managed amidst a string of delighted sounds. "When will you go?"

"Unknown," he said, scraping his nails slightly. "I have a new contract, so I'll have to make those arrangements first."

Dorian felt a hint of anxiety at that. Which of course meant Fitzwilliam felt it too. Blighted bond. "Anything I should know?" he asked, voice tight with the worry he didn't bother trying to conceal.

Amusement trickled through just before Fitzwilliam spoke, "Yes, actually. Important vote coming on the floor soon. Three days. Has your father secured you a position in the court yet?"

Dorian sighed, wanting to feel annoyed with his lover talking politics whilst they were naked in a warm bath, but the massage did feel rather good, despite the lack-luster conversation. "He says I'm to be appointed soon, but the Archon is dragging his feet over adding seats."

"Well," Fitz drawled meaningfully, "now would be a good time for Halward to revisit the idea."

"Ooooh," Dorian drawled, interest finally piqued. "Are you assassinating one of the Magisters? Which one?"

"Tsk," Fitzwilliam chuckled. "You know I can't tell you that."

"Yes, yes," he sighed. "For my own safety, blah blah blah. But one of these nights you're not going to come home and I won't know how to find you or whom to ask and then what? Hmm?"

Fitz dropped a short kiss onto his bare back. "Calm yourself, Serah, all is well." Dorian huffed, but didn't argue. "Dunk." Dorian held his breath and submerged. Fitzwilliam rubbed his hair, rinsing the soap out. When he came back up, wiping water from his eyes, the Herald was speaking again. "Sooner is better than later, Dorian." He sounded depressingly serious.

"If I agree," Dorian sighed, shaking some of the water out of his hair, "can we stop talking about work and have some fun?"

Fitzwilliam laughed, a sound that finally brought some joy to the room, and grasped the mage's shoulders, turning him in the water so that they were face to face. "We have an accord," he said, grinning like anything.

Dorian leaned forward, love and thankfulness inundating the bond so pervasively that he couldn't tell from whom it originated, and kissed Fitzwilliam. Moving to Tevinter hadn't been easy but they had settled in in the last few months. A routine, nearly, had formed. They had a life here, something Dorian hadn't ever dared dream would happen. It hadn't been easy, naturally, what with things between his father and him still being so touchy, and his mother was being downright wicked to Fitz for some unfathomable reason, and the work they had come here to do was so hard as to be nearly impossible. But they were here together, and that counted for more than all of it. Together, he knew they were a force – unmatched, unstoppable.

The kiss ended, leaving their faces close and smiling. "So," Fitzwilliam was asking, "what kind of fun did you have in mind?" He was positively leering at him. Clearly he had ideas of his own.

Dorian smiled wickedly, and enjoyed watching the expression on that face shift. "I was thinking we ought to choose our ensemble for tomorrow's outing." Fitzwilliam groaned.

"Do I have to go?" He whined.

"We promised mother we would," Dorian reminded him, his hands slipping wetly across Fitz's thigh. "It is best we don't let her down."

"But she hates me Dorian," he groused. "Maker knows why, but that woman hates me. The entire afternoon will be nothing more than her making sharp barbs in my direction, and showing me off to various magisters."

Dorian could hardly argue opposite. "A promise is a promise, Amatus," he said, dropping a peck on his cheek. "Think of it as another opportunity to win her over."

Fitzwilliam rolled his eyes and stood, water cascaded down his body in small rivulets as he stepped from the basin and retrieved a towel. "Last time," he reminded the mage as he bent over and mussed the moisture from his hair with the cloth, "she made fun of my cuffs. She said they made my wrists look stubby."

Dorian laughed, standing in the tub and allowing gravity to do some of the work of whisking the water away. "Which is why I'm dressing you this time," he reminded. Fitzwilliam straightened, turning an intent gaze on Dorian's form. There was definitely an appreciative glimmer in those brilliant blue orbs when Dorian put his arms akimbo, displaying his assets for the Inquisitor's perusal. "When I am done with you," he purred suggestively, "Mother won't have a single grievance. I promise."

He stepped from the basin and took the towel from Fitz's outstretched hand, dabbing delicately at the moisture on his skin. There was heat in the eyes that watched him and he could feel the desire pulsing through the bond. He fixed Fitzwilliam with a stare that was heavy with suggestion. "Shall we?" He asked. Truthfully, he pitied his lover. Dorian was not a man who was easily distracted. Yes, he would indulge, savor every inch of bared skin, but later. When his work was done and Fitzwilliam was in need of cheering.

He didn't wait for Fitz to respond. He just turned, walking naked into their bedchamber. "Come along, Amatus," he called over his shoulder. His lips twisted in amusement when he heard the skittering behind him, Fitzwilliam trying to focus on anything but what he was seeing, and make his body move.

Maybe he could salvage this night after all.

Dorian and Fitzwilliam had come to Tevinter to effect change, to redeem his homeland.

As if their goals hadn't been unattainable enough. It wasn't enough for Dorian and the Inquisitor to come to Tevinter and start playing politics. That wasn't suitably complicating their lives. No, now there were new rifts opening, magic was being unpredictable, the slave trade was in an upswing, and a dozen other things to help fill in the gaps.

They'd expected double-dealings, the drudgery of politics, and bloodshed. It was the rest of it that was giving them trouble.

The world was changing. Could they change with it? Or would it tear them apart in the process?

A/n: Hello lovelies! Welcome back! I am so, so delighted to be posting Redeemers. Fair warning: this is going to be just a monster of a fic. I am likely going to need a lot of encouragement because this is gonna be a long haul. So please, comment, message, visit my Tumblr ( .com) whatever you like. Just make yourself known. I am also notoriously bad at divulging information to people who are being enthusiastic. So... yeah.

I apologize in advance for the angst in this fic. And the other things you might get mad about... *shifty eyes*

I also apologize to V-bird who has waited VERY patiently to meet Vanessah Pavus. Sadly, darling, you must wait one more week. But then, I promise, you'll get her.

~Love!