Cynasse basked in the heat and humidity of the blazing Minrathous day, comfortably reclined in an ornate curule chair. There were attractive slaves – all bearing the chained halla emblem of her House on their elegant collars - on hand with wine, fruit and sorbets, her seat was resplendently gilded and almost sinfully comfortable, and great bouquets of fragrant bougainvillea strategically positioned around her exclusive box kept even the stench of the unwashed masses at bay.
The privileges of rank, naturally – although Cynasse was keenly aware that, in the rarefied corridors of the Magisterium, rank and power shifted and changed moment to moment, an ever-flowing, ever-changing river. Happily, so far she’d been an adept sailor of those invisible, deadly currents, steering House Hallandren to ever greater heights.
So far.
The roar of the crowd as the imperial gladiators cut their way through the opposition shook her mind free from any worrisome introspection.
It was a veritable wall of sound, born of seventy thousand throats screaming, jeering, catcalling, chatting and whistling, all at cross-purposes and at the tops of their lungs…the box tiers had cunning baffles and other architectural tricks worked into their construction by wily dwarven artisans at the heyday of the empire to cut the noise down from physically painful to merely loud, but there was only so much that could be done about it by merely mundane means.
Cynasse kept her eyes trained on the arena, the sand quickly speckling a dull rust-brown with the lifeblood of slaves, maintaining every outward appearance of interest in the martial spectacle playing out for the adulation of the Soporati.
“Quite so, Lord Sulla,” she murmured, her voice a rich near-purr that stroked up and down the spine of every red-blooded Tevene in earshot.
She applauded politely – more for her companions’ benefit, and for anyone who might have been watching, than out of any expectation Atharius would hear it – as her apprentice’s bladed staff, freshly freed from the heart of an unlucky opponent, carved a viciously elegant arc through the air and past a flailing elf’s non-existent guard. The ending: a jugular slash, a choking scream and a spray of bright arterial blood from a collapsing flesh-puppet that had once been a slave made her smile briefly. Seconds later, the iron tang of fresh-spilled blood washed over their box, despite the flowers, and she breathed it deep, savouring the familiar commingled scent like a fine wine.
Blood was power, in a very real sense in the Imperium; the squeamish were quickly weeded out by the brutal metrics of competition at the highest levels of imperial society. Those that remained, to a man, were all connoisseurs of the blood, often by choice and inclination as well as sheer necessity.
“A fine display, indeed. Doubtless good for the soporati to see the supremacy of the empire.” She paused, just long enough to eat a slice of peach from her southern holdings with every sign of enjoyment, eyes sliding closed in pleasure for a moment, before continuing: “And a diverting morning for those of us with higher callings.”
Her relaxed mien, the slight curve of a smile dancing across her lips, invited the Sullas to consider themselves part of that exalted group – as, of course, they were. Four archons to their name, the grit and drive to pull themselves back from near-ruination and a current master canny enough to recognize his own shortcomings would be fatal in the Magisterial arena…those were qualities Cynasse heartily approved of. She’d hardly have agreed to any form of association – let alone an apprenticeship – if she didn’t.
“I would have concerns – grave concerns – were he to be overmatched by a bare handful of slaves fresh off the boats,” she added, nonetheless. “Happily, it seems Altus wit and skill carries the day, and we may all sleep peacefully in our beds, secure in the knowledge our noble champions stand ready to repel an uprising.” Carefully unsaid was the uncomfortable truth that – in the profession of mundane arms, at least – the match would have been far more even were there qunari in opposition, trained and bred for war from birth.
Such a match, whilst undoubtedly exciting, would not be happening. This was, after all, something of a staged bout, as indeed were all the Provings of the day, stage-managed from the shadows by Archon Radonis, to solidify his own powerbase and to reassure the teeming commons that Tevinter power and prestige remained secure and unassailable. Cynasse approved; it was just the sort of thing she’d have arranged in his position, to distract the eyes of many away from the unpalatable jobs that had to be done.
It was for this reason, then, that whilst she and the Sullas relaxed in a palatial box on a marble tier reserved for the Magisters, in full view of the Archon, many of the Magisterium – including the bulk of House Vanicci - the Altus and thousands of the lower orders, her deniable agents were even now in motion.
Their job was to relieve the Vanicci estate of some interesting texts and artifacts – potentially key to her research – that they’d proved unwilling to part with via the usual means. A quick and quiet operation, if all went well, with handsome payments awaiting her…experts in alternative entry…on successful completion.
If they weren’t successful, well, there was still the little surprise arranged for the animal combat later on – another time-honoured tradition of the Proving Ground. Cynasse allowed herself a little smile at the thought. Elephants had been the terror of imperial foes right back to the heyday of the Imperium, and were always a favourite in Proving matches, so naturally a small cabal – if that was the right word for a group of elephants – had been brought in for Radonis’ spectacle.
Cynasse had merely quietly ensured that one of the young bulls was in the earliest stages of musth when brought into the pens of the Proving Ground; by the time the elephants were released from their individual cages onto the sands of the arena itself, she was betting the bull would be in the full throes of the condition, in an agonized and murderous rage that the maddened animal would gleefully take out on the gladiators, heedless of its own wounds.
All going well, the promising young champion and scion of House Vanicci would be gored, or trampled, or otherwise tragically maimed in some fashion, thus removing an asset of theirs from play and ensuring the House as a whole would be distracted by either mourning or healing needs.
“Young Vanicci-” there was but a handful of years between them, really, although an ocean of experience “-is also doing awfully well, isn’t he? And with that colossal sword he favours, too! If I’d not seen it with my own eyes I’d not have believed it.” She smiled at Vita benignly, to take any sting out of her words, and then leaned over to whisper conspiratorially to Sabina.
“I hear the Archon has arranged for elephants this afternoon, you know. I wonder how he’ll fare?”
A thought struck – or seemed to strike, to her companions – her then, and she imperiously beckoned one of her slaves over, a willowy elfin maiden with the chained halla prominent at her throat, whose bronzed skin gleamed with many gilded piercings and sheer silks that teased and tantalised. “Go to the gladiators’ quarters,” she murmured in a throaty purr. “Give Atharius this-” a slender golden torc, set with a burning black opal, a traditional – if ostentatious – sign of a lady’s favour “-for the later bouts, with my delight at his performance, and discreetly advise him his lady feels the animal games as well would be…unwise.”
