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Zevran circled the marketplace for the third time that afternoon, and cast a seemingly innocent glance over his shoulder, blond hair spilling onto his back like silk. That child was still following him. From a distance, of course, but the Antivan knew what to look for.
Whenever he paused at a stall to examine goods, or pretended to, he kept an eye out for the child that tended to mimic him poorly and stop to admire ingredients for poisons or shiny new blades. Far too expensive for an urchin, for one thing.
The Antivan clicked his tongue to himself in thought over the wares on offer, risking a better look at the child when they seemed earnestly distracted by a woman selling flowers. A young blonde girl in a dress almost as grubby as her fingers, perhaps no more than eight or nine. Elven, too. Either she belonged to one of the stallholders and had been given free reign, or she was from the Alienage tucked away somewhere in the walled backroads of Denerim.
He watched as she slipped a tiny trinket off the front of a stall and tucked it away into the sleeve of her dress. Something as small as that could hardly be considered stealing, but with the ease she had pulled it off? Definitely not a merchant’s brat.
Zevran realised he’d been staring when the girl snuck her next regular glance at him - he'd timed it, and she looked for him every few minutes - and he snapped his attention back to the stallholder in front of him, a wickedly suggestive compliment already dancing on his tongue. How could he be distracted by a child? A thief at that. She did not seem to have grown into cutting purses yet, and in truth Zevran had already spent a little over half his coin on a new blade and fresh oils, but he found himself double-checking the leather pouch was still in place beside the sheath of one of his daggers, and the strings were intact.
Why was a child so interested in him? This was Denerim, it could not be because he was an elf. Was it because he was so clearly foreign? A loud laugh and a thick, rolling accent in amongst so many dreary Fereldens? He was a momentary curiosity in her life, she would move onto the next pretty flower or shiny gem to swipe quickly enough once he had gone back to the tavern and rejoined the group.
Zevran snuck a glance again to check where the child had gotten to, and spotted her at the opposite end of the marketplace chatting to a man who sold chickens. Good. He slipped away from his own conversation partner, melting back into the small crowd with ease as ‘what-ifs’ started to spark to life in his mind.
What if she was somehow connected to the Crows? What if they were here in Denerim, and she paid to give a hidden signal for an ambush when Zevran was vulnerable? That was how some assassination contracts had ended up, if it was suspected that the mark could or would put up a fight, to ensure they were dead. Pay off a dirty street urchin with a few beaten coppers to cough or scratch their head when they saw the mark leave a busy area, so the assassins mingling in the crowd could follow at their leisure. Why else would a child be trying to follow him round a busy marketplace?
If she was… Zevran looked over at her again, wondering what her agreed signal would be. Would she bump into him, come begging for a coin? One of his hands twitched closer to the hilt of his dagger, half-expecting a dozen Crows to suddenly descend upon him as if they’d been conjured by thought alone. He fought the urge to look over a shoulder, but found himself listening intently all the same.
Then he took a breath, deliberately moved his hand away from the dagger as he tried to calm himself. There was a more reasonable chance that she was simply a beggar and sneak thief that had taken note of the tattooed elf that definitely wasn’t from the city’s Alienage - he wore his armour and blades proudly, after all. This was not Antiva, where the Crows could swoop down on people with a second’s notice, a second’s chance to react and defend themselves. Ferelden was different. Muddy and stinking of wet dog, but different. He hoped.
Zevran rubbed absently at his facial tattoos, and looked for the girl warily. She’d completed another circle of the marketplace, and seemed to be looking for the blond elf that had slipped away into the crowd. She was approaching the stall she’d lifted the ring or whatever she had taken - a very bad move this soon -, and the Antivan winced when the stallholder seemed to recognise her and grab her by the wrist.
He was too far away to hear what the man was saying, no doubt calling her every name and slur under the sun, but to her credit the girl didn’t cry. Her eyes were wide with shock as she tried and failed to squirm away, and something about the look on her face made Zevran’s heart twist in pity. In Antiva they cut a finger off whenever a thief was caught, child or no, and as he slipped through the crowd again Zevran couldn’t help wondering if the punishment was the same in Ferelden.
The blond lifted his chin up as he approached the stallholder and young girl - even for an elf child, she was small - and cleared his throat to be heard over the fuss. Both of them turned to look at him.
“Might I ask what is the matter, good ser?” Zevran asked, making sure to move his hands behind the hilts of his daggers. The shopkeeper’s eyes darted down to follow the movement, and some of the aggression seeped out of his shoulders; his tight, bruising grip on the girl’s wrist loosened at the sight of the daggers.
“Caught her stealin’. Don’t know why a filthy knife-ear like you’s gettin’ involved in business that isn’t yours.” The human answered gruffly.
“Consider it a healthy concern for my own.” Zevran answered smoothly, and he saw a flicker of doubt cloud the human’s eyes as he looked from Zevran to the girl and back, as he’d hoped. The wonders of ambiguous phrasing. “What did she take?” He asked quickly, before the human could enquire further. The child was staring at him in mute surprise.
“I… I didn’t see.” The man admitted reluctantly, and Zevran frowned in disapproval. “But there are a few things missin’ from my stall, she probably took them!”
Zevran glanced at the stall in question, and deepened his frown. “Ser, if you have no proof that she stole anything…” He turned to the next shopkeeper over, who so far had been trying and failing to hide the fact he was watching curiously. “You, there, kind ser, did you see this child take anything from this stall?” He asked loudly, drawing more stares from passing customers, the bored guards.
The first shopkeeper paled slightly, dropped the girl’s wrist. Zevran twitched the fingers of the hand closest to her, and thankfully she hurried over to duck behind him away from the scary shem.
“There’s no need to get others involved in this.” He said, even as his neighbour frowned and shook his head. Zevran turned back to the shopkeeper.
“So you have no evidence, or any witnesses? The shame of you, accusing an innocent child of stealing - what, rings and cheap little baubles?” The Antivan tutted, and was pleased to see the man looked cowed. “And your kind call us the low ones.” Zevran glanced down at the girl, and flashed her a reassuring wink. “Come, little one.” He instructed, as if it was the most natural thing in the world, and led the child to the other side of the market, where they were well out of sight of the defeated stallholder.
She laughed once they stopped, and curtsied almost as well as a noble girl as she smiled. Zevran had to grit his teeth slightly to resist the urge to grin back.
“I feel the need to compliment your acting talents, young lady.” He said instead, leaning back against a stack of crates and crossing one ankle over the other.
“Thank you.” She asked, apparently unable to stop grinning up at her saviour.
“What did you steal?” Zevran asked, and the girl hesitated, smile fading a little. He watched knowingly as she instinctively drew the sleeve she’d tucked her prize into closer to her body, as if she was afraid the taller, bigger, far older elf would take it away from her now. Zevran could relate to that wariness, knew it could serve her well.
“A… Ring.” She answered, most likely a lie. A bracelet, perhaps, or some earrings. “Not worth much.” She added defensively, and Zevran held up his hands reassuringly, to show they were empty, the way he’d seen Theron do countless times.
“You can keep the ring, child, I have money enough.” He shrugged, and he saw her eyes dart to his coinpurse. However, she had sense enough to know it was definitely off limits. “I would suggest in future you try to be more careful. Perhaps engage the stallholder in idle chatter about the weather to distract him, yes?”
The child frowned at him, took in his armour and the fact he was armed to the teeth.
“Are you a mercenary?” She asked, and Zevran shrugged.
“Of a sort.” He replied vaguely, but it seemed to satisfy her curiosity. “I had best be returning to the tavern, in fact. Charmed to meet you.” Without preamble, he pushed away from the crates, gave the elven girl a respectful nod, and went on his way back to the Gnawed Noble.
Zevran had almost put the day’s incident out of his mind, relaxing at the table with a good mead when someone tapped on his shoulder, drawing his attention as well as the bemused gazes of the rest of the group. It took him a second to remember the girl from the marketplace standing next to the table, looking a little less grubby and far happier.
“You said you were at the tavern, but not which one, so I went to all the others looking for you.” The fact the girl had an audience didn’t seem to deter her in the slightest. “Then I heard someone in the Grinning Mabari talking about the group in the Gnawed Noble, so…” She stopped for breath then, and smiled at Zevran. “Thank you.” She said, and before he could edge away she’d managed to hug him, thin arms squeezing round his shoulders. Leliana cooed at the sight. Then the girl was gone again.
“Did... That just happen? What just happened?” Alistair questioned, staring after the child as she weaved between tables and pushed the tavern door open.
“I think it did, whatever it was.” Theron nodded, and he gave the slightly flustered Antivan next to him a careful, sidelong look. “Care to explain, lath?”