Many thanks to our fantastic beta readers, Mille Libri and ShebasDawn!

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Chapter One: Whispers in the Wind

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The song of a flute danced in the wind.

Val Royeaux danced along with it, packed full of people as they went about their business. As the oppressive heat of summer slowly gave way before the cool crispness of fall, the residents of the capital city of Orlais took advantage of the break in heat to pour into the streets, indulging in any manner of activities which the sun's hot beams had prevented. Money changed hands as baubles were purchased, cool drinks were poured, and information was exchanged. It was Orlais, and that meant that words were as valuable - if not more - as the wine which usually accompanied them. In the distance flashed the bright white of the Cathedral's spires and dome where it lay at the heart of the Chantry. Despite the distance which lay between this unimportant market square and the expansive center of Val Royeaux, the faint strains of the Chant reached the ears of those who drank, and laughed, and lived.

And the persistent joy of the flute celebrated with all of them.

It was a cheerful melody, full of life and wonder, and those who came into its power would smile as a memory came to them of a happier time: a beautiful spring day, the chuckle of a child, or perhaps even the light touch of a lover. Those who sought the source of their sudden good mood found a sight common in Val Royeaux: a busker, faded hat on the curb beside him, playing for a few coppers so that he could buy hot mulled wine for the night before the chill of the coming autumn could settle into his bones.

Such was the skill of the minstrel that there was even some silver mixed in with the copper in the hat, and the music distracted his audience enough they could be forgiven for not noticing the way his eyes moved over the crowd, as if he were searching for someone. When he wrapped up his song with a flourish and a bow, there was a smattering of applause as he swept up his hat and collected his earnings, and then he was dismissed from the minds of the people to whom he had given a small measure of joy. Life moved on, after all, regardless of the little distractions that came up along the way.

Ives Durante smiled as he placed the faded hat upon his head and tucked his flute into a case whose fine silver engraving belied the ragged clothes and smudged skin. As it was, he secured his earnings into a leather pouch beneath his tunic and began to follow the path laid by his eyes, fixed as they were on two figures working their way slowly through the crowd.

His sources had been correct: two women, both seemingly human - one shorter than most elves and the other wearing a cloak with a hood that kept her face in a perpetual shadow. He'd seen enough of a glimpse under that hood to be almost certain that she was one of the ones he sought, and no other pair had come through the square that was even close to the description he'd committed to his memory.

"Ah, lala, you are rather good at not being noticed," he murmured softly. Unlike most women of his acquaintance - outside of his chosen profession, naturally - who wore dresses designed to enhance their figure and dressed their hair to attract the eye, these two could almost have passed for men, with their bland green and grey trews and tunics and hair bound so securely and subtly that one had to look to see that the short one had quite a lot of hair hidden under the collar of her cloak. Such a petite thing, yet her eyes constantly moved about the area, and she walked not with the steps designed to move the hips in a way to enchant a man but with the stride of one accustomed to carrying a weapon upon her back. "And you are good at seeing what is around you." He calculated their trajectory. "Ah, but you are still lost. Perhaps I should take pity on you before the dark comes and the true predators of the city emerge."

So saying, he quickened his steps, abandoning the idea of trying to take them unawares; it was clear that technique would not work with them. No, instead he concentrated on the fact that they were carrying at least one bag too many as his way to approach them, even though they had already turned down three other hopeful porters while he had watched. "Time to use some of that Durante charm."

With a quick sprint and exact knowledge of the alleys and byways of Val Royeaux, he managed to get ahead of them, ending up on another street corner where he quickly took some time to look less scruffy and slightly more reputable. Luck was with him as, just when they came close enough for him to call out to them, a blonde-haired vagabond staggered into the taller one, forcing her off-balance and almost knocking her off her feet. Ives rushed over and caught her bag and her elbow, salvaging both, and yelled a mild epithet at the wastrel, whose slurred reply wouldn't bear repeating in polite company. Thankfully Ives didn't take offense to insults on his abhorrent father, especially ones he'd directed towards the man himself a time or two. Turning to the woman he had helped, he said, "Ah, lala, you must have such a poor opinion of Val Royeaux after such an incident. Allow me to salvage the reputation of the beloved crown jewel of the Empress' seat." He swept into an over-elaborate bow. "Perhaps I could assist you ladies? I promise you, you will remain firmly on your feet as long as I am at your command."

The woman he'd saved from an untimely dusty bottom pulled back from him quickly, hand going to her hood to quickly restore it over her face - though not quickly enough to prevent him from seeing some of the scars that marked her, an obvious reason why she went to such lengths to conceal herself. As she attended to that, the shorter woman stepped forward and held out her hand for the bag yet in his grasp. "I think we'll be fine, thank you, ser."

He put on a charming smile. "But I know every nook, every cranny! And for such lovely company, I would perform such a service for only a few coppers. Such a bargain!"

The petite woman took another step closer, her stance making it even more evident she was no stranger to combat. The anxious way her face turned from side to side, however, displayed a bit more nervousness than she'd shown previously, as if she were afraid of something... or someone. "You seem to be a lout, but-"

The other woman suddenly spoke. "But a useful lout. Give him your bag."

The short one looked at her companion, obviously startled. "Livilla-"

"I'm tired of carrying everything, and he did save me from a rather ignominious embarrassment." Livilla gestured towards where Ives stood. "Go on. If he really does know every nook and cranny of this ridiculously large city, I'm sure he can take us to the Keep."

Though still uncertain, the short woman finally sighed and held out her bag. "If you're sure."

Ives reached out for the bag - which turned out to be surprisingly heavy - and took the opportunity to peek under her hood, since it didn't conceal her nearly as completely as that of her companion. He found deep blue eyes framed by a face kissed only lightly by the sun. Pretty - but then, he'd rarely found a woman he couldn't use the word for - but with a line between her brows that spoke of a worry that never went away. "The Keep of the Grey Wardens? Of course I know where it is." He nodded back in the direction from which they'd come. "Unfortunately, it is behind you."

Livilla's hood turned to look at the shorter woman, who now looked embarrassed herself. "I told you we were going the wrong way, Isabeau."

"It's a ridiculously large city," she mumbled. Hitching her second bag higher onto her shoulder, she waved vaguely behind them. "Lead on, lout."

Ives chuckled lightly, but it was obviously no wise idea to continue heckling the poor women. "It is! Wonderfully, perhaps, rather than ridiculously, but just look around you! Cobbled streets, quaint cafes, fabulous drapery, brilliantly artistic signs... Ah, and can you hear it? Mm, the Chant, drifting through the streets and alleyways. A good reminder how blessed we are to live in Val Royeaux, no? But you don't seem to like it here somehow! Tell me, how is it so? Where do you lovely maidens hail from that you scorn such a spectacular, such a perfect gem as this?"

"The northern gate," Livilla said. "And before that, Montfort." Ives noticed the surprised glance Isabeau sent her friend, as if not expecting her to actually provide an answer. "Now, that is the perfect city, Large enough to provide protection, small enough that you don't have to deal with..." She hesitated, then looked at where a large tree could be seen in the distance, jutting up from the distant Alienage. "...with humanity's worst mistakes."

Intrigued, Ives wished he could get a closer look at the woman. She was certainly too tall for an elf, but most humans - particularly in Orlais - didn't care one whit for elves beyond making sure they cleaned houses meticulously and prepared food on time. "Not all of humanity is so dreadful," he defended. "Why, I'm fairly certain I'm mostly human myself! Then again, there's a penchant in my family that makes me wonder... but that is certainly neither here nor there. I happen to fancy Montfort myself, you know. It's a wonderful little city, and it has such charming country ... ah, well... charm." He chuckled, hurrying ahead of them a step or three so that he could turn mostly towards them, walking more a blend of sideways and backwards than properly forward. There was quite a lot to glean from demeanor. "Not like the Warden's Keep. That is a ... Mm, heartier place. What would ever bring two lovely mademoiselles to such a place?"

"Limited opportunities," the taller one retorted. "And since we worked at the Keep in Montfort, we hope to find similar positions here with the Wardens. And that is all we need tell you." She paused, forcing Ives to halt as well as she turned and called, "Isabeau!"

The shorter one flushed and trotted to catch up with them. "Sorry, I thought I saw-" Her eyes darted to Ives for a second. "-a familiar face." Her hand disappeared under her cloak, and Ives had no doubt that it now rested upon the hilt of some kind of weapon.

Livilla stiffened. "Faster, lout. We'd prefer not to be on the streets of Orlais when the sun sets and the debauchery commences." For all her pretense, her words could not conceal the fear that leached into her voice.

"But night is my favorite hour! Ah, well, I suppose if we must. A shortcut may be in order, no?" Though he took their sleeves and pulled them along a side row, his eyes were still watching the street from whence they'd come. There was a face that he'd seen once before today, a face marked by a scar on his mouth that was quite distinctive, and that was peculiar since they weren't really in the same neighborhood anymore. It would take a third time to become more than a coincidence, and hopefully they would be at the Keep before that could happen. "You see, and now we'll cross the canal, and avoid having to walk all those extra blocks to the next main bridge. It's not as grand and beautiful as the other, but, ah, well... beauty must be found elsewhere, I suppose. Oh! Look, I've found some." Their cheeky guide gave Livilla a nudge and winked to her hooded face.

Isabeau reached out and put a hand on Livilla's arm even as it moved, quickly coming to her side and whispering something in what Ives recognized as the language of the Tevinter Imperium, but spoken so quickly he couldn't get more than every other word, though it roughly boiled down to 'he means well,' as far as he could tell. Turning to Ives as Livilla muttered under her breath and fell a step behind them, she said brightly, "And we are fortunate to have met you, ser, an honest minstrel willing to assist strangers in your beloved city. Do you generally perform these generous acts of goodwill?"

In a woman of Val Royeaux, or someone accustomed to the Game of Orlais, such a question would have seemed either cynical or flirtatious, those being the main forms of the Game between a man and a woman who were recent acquaintances. Isabeau... She's either sincere, Ives mused, or a master of the Game at a young age - and both are highly unlikely.

"Oh, no. Usually I'm not this sober." He chuckled heartily and put his attention back onto Isabeau, as she seemed to be the more receptive target here. "Would you believe I am a flirtatious drunk? Ah, you probably thought me a saintly sort before I confessed such a thing to you... Perhaps my lips are too loose. Or maybe my belt too tight... But we part at this point, for now, so I am able to escape my slips of the tongue. Convenient, oui?"

Their quickened journey had brought them to stand before the Warden's Keep, with its great, dusty courtyard separated from the rest of the city by massive, thin-railed gates, standing as it had for Ages: a bulwark against Darkspawn incursion from the mainland. As the years lengthened and the Blight in Ferelden became naught but a distant memory, however, the Keep came to represent mainly a source of casual entertainment in the form of its recruits, sweating through their training routines in the vast courtyard in plain view of all who passed by and looked curiously within. Beyond that courtyard lay only mysteries: few ever saw more than the inside of the mess hall, and only the Grey Wardens and those servants sworn to secrecy - usually derived from families who for generations had sworn the same oath - went beyond the sleeping quarters that housed the recruits. He gazed up at the high walls, then shook his head and turned to them with yet another florid bow. "... Except that I must leave you, for the guide is only useful so long as you are lost! Inconvenient indeed. I was so enjoying your company."

"I'm sure, lout," Livilla said, moving with almost unseemly haste as she took her bag from Ives and ushered Isabeau forward. "Come on, we'll see him later."

Ives raised an eyebrow, wondering how Livilla knew that particular fact, as Isabeau followed her friend's lead, though she whispered a quick thanks to Ives as she took her bag. Still, the way her eyes widened as she looked beyond Ives before she turned and practically bolted into the Keep tickled more than Ives' curiosity: the hairs on the back of his neck had responded to her reaction, alerting him to a danger whose nature he did not yet know.

Quickly he turned and sought the reason for her fear, his own hand slipping to a knife hidden in a cunning fashion behind his belt. He found a small crowd gathering in front of the Keep, attention turned inward. Warily he moved to join the crowd, his bardic instinct for trouble on high alert. He hadn't discovered anything he'd wanted to in this little excursion: why the unusual pair had been granted permission to transfer from Montfort; why the recruit - whom he assumed to be Isabeau, despite her height - was younger on paper than she appeared to be in person; or why Livilla had only been listed as 'servant' when it was clear she willingly bowed to no one. However, he could at least determine why they had acted as if the Archdemon himself were following them.

After a bit of delicate bullying and lavishing of charming smiles, he finally made his way to the center of the crowd in time to see a Chantry laysister close the eyes of a man lying limp on the ground. Biting his lip to refrain from drawing attention to himself, he watched as a flurry of questions and exclamations and (this being Val Royeaux) swoons swept through the crowd as the woman stood from where she had knelt next to the body. "He rests in the Maker's arms," she announced. "Did anyone see what happened?"

The crowd seemed generally oblivious, but Ives obeyed the nagging in the back of his mind and slowly turned his head to look at the man beside him.

Once was chance, twice coincidence, but three times... Though he could only see the profile of the man, the light of the setting sun caught enough of the face to highlight the scar that ran alongside the man's mouth, pulling it into a permanent sneer. Ives knew it was the same man he'd seen in the square where he'd first found the girls, the same man that Isabeau had tried to deny knowing, and now... He looked back at the dead body as two men straightened the limbs and prepared it to be taken away, trying to figure out what had made the dead man a target - and what manner of assassin had struck him down.

His peripheral vision caught a movement from his side: the man he suspected to be the killer was making a tucking motion into his tunic. Fighting the urge to go look for a dart on the body of the deceased, he made a tsking sound and shook his head. "Such a tragedy. Truly a senseless death, and on a most beautiful day!" His mind raced, trying to come up with a reason with which he could test the waters. "Ah lala, the Game has gotten rather dark since his Grace beheaded himself before the Sun Gates, dead before his rebellion against the Empress could reach dastardly fruition." He gestured vaguely to the body which someone had now covered with a cloak. "Must this be the cost of stability? Murder in the streets? Ah, such a pity."

The man didn't turn to him, but an odd smile twisted his already askew lips as a dark blue eye - the only one Ives could see - looked into the sky. "Gaspard de Chalons showed uncommon fortitude that day, to sacrifice himself for the good of the Empress and Orlais. A good lesson, perhaps, for those who choose to involve themselves in matters they should ignore." Ives noted the cultured Orlesian accent, spoken with the tones that usually only those of a noble background acquired, and wondered at the words - which seemed directed at him as much as at the corpse lying on the ground. "I wonder if this act will be repeated, or if the lesson will be taken to heart."

The clink of armor signaled the approach of a squad of Chevalier, likely summoned at the request of the laysister, and the man shrugged. "Good day to you, ser. Pray we never meet again." Before Ives could respond with word or action, the man turned and slipped through the crowd. Even though Ives kept his gaze fixed on the man, he still lost track of him far sooner than he should have.

Letting a frown rise to the surface, he looked over to where the squad of Chevalier were talking with the laysister and taking control of the situation. Catching sight of a familiar figure - very familiar, since he rather enjoyed the use of mirrors - he strolled over and caught his twin's attention. As he waited silently for his brother to finish the conversation with an old comrade, his gaze moved restlessly over the area, certain there were eyes upon him but unable to find the source.

When Jean laughed heartily and clapped his friend on the shoulder, Ives knew the conversation was over and that he would soon have his brother's undivided attention. The Chevalier with whom his brother had been speaking waved at Ives cheerfully before turning and rejoining his fellows in their grim task, and Jean approached Ives with a lingering smile on his face.

Ives inclined his head towards the Keep, indicating that it should be their destination, and Jean nodded. As they walked slowly towards the gates, Jean said in what he probably thought was a quiet voice, "So what did you find out about our mysterious pair?" His Orlesian accent was very thick, much thicker than Ives' own, but in the Keep it was considered polite to use trade speech rather than Orlesian - particularly since the resident Warden-Commander was a Dalish elf that hailed originally from Ferelden. His whisper was similarly clumsy, since the man had not a dishonest bone in his body, as far as Ives could tell. Granted, considering Ives' own dubious past, it merely meant that Ives himself had gotten the double dose for both of them.

"Very little," Ives murmured, his less accented voice soft enough to avoid detection. "One of them hid her face so well even I could catch no more than a glimpse. She could not easily hide in a crowd, though." At Jean's puzzled glance, he sighed. "You will know why when you see her. I saw hints of scars, but I suspect when she is uncovered they are quite a bit more noticeable. Your new student is shorter than our Artana, if you can believe that."

"And she is a human?" he asked, surprised, as Artana was certainly no giant among elves. "Her recommendation says that she is good with a shield... If she is so short, maybe that is because she can hide behind it, oui?" Though he had certainly sobered from that booming laugh he shared with his brother-in-gilded-arms, the man could not laugh insincerely. It was a shame this conversation had to be tainted by so many oddities. He had been hoping some of the mystery around their two visitors would prove to be rumor and gossip. Now it seemed that the storm clouds had begun to roll in. A murder right in front of the Keep... no doubt the Wardens would be pressured by the Guard for any pertinent information. "We should see how the week goes, I think. It should be interesting, whatever happens."

"Oh, I will agree with that, mon freré. Interesting... and quite busy. Well, whoever said that sleep is more than a luxury is proved the fool yet again." He stepped by Jean, clapping his shoulder as he passed, and looked towards the topmost window in the left tower. Artana took an office under her favorite vantage in the Keep, as her Dalish heritage taught her to always be keenly aware of her surroundings. He wondered if the Warden-Commander's choice would aid him at all in the days to come; the Keep was supposed to be a haven, but no matter the prowess of the Commander's bow, she needed him to play the Game. In Val Royeaux, not even the Wardens were safe from its twisted machinations.

He almost missed the movement in the corner of his vision, looking back only in time to see a haunting profile before it disappeared into the crowd.

"Let's get inside," he said, an odd chill waking goosepimples on his arms. "I don't like the feel of the shadows this day."

Jean shrugged amiably. "As you wish, mon freré. You will need to report to Artana, at any rate."

"Ah, but I thought you were thrusting the reports at her this night, mon frére," Ives replied with a wink. "In a suitably in depth fashion, of course. Maker forbid we disappoint our Dalish princess, non?"

With a familiar roll of his eyes at Ives' teasing, Jean simply shook his head, returning their conversation to more serious matters. "What exactly do you need to look into?""

Ives sobered as they walked through into the Keep proper, feeling slightly better with the thick gate closed behind him. "Several matters, including the fact that our mysterious pair of beauties apparently know the language of the Imperium, and that the poor soul your former comrade-in-arms out there are even now carting away to the Chantry for proper burial was from the Tevinter Imperium himself." Though the man had tried to blend in with Orlesian clothes, he hadn't changed his hairstyle or bothered to remove the amulet that showed his allegiance to a Magister. It didn't matter which Magister - Ives recognized the significance of the amulet without needing to fret over the details, as it were.

Jean sent him a sharp look. "Truly? That's... odd." He frowned. It was more than odd, it was a wrinkle that took this out of the realm of the Game with which even he was familiar and put it into an intrigue that only a trained bard could truly understand.

Luckily, he had Ives. "More than odd," he agreed to Jean's statement. "And put all that together with the fact I suspect I know who our killer is, though my only evidence is instinct, and it adds up to some late nights for me." He smiled. "Ah, lala, later than has been normal."

Jean chuckled. "As long as you remember to use sense when you wander, I am sure Artana will allow you to continue your investigation. Granted, that's demanding quite a bit from you..."

Wrinkling his nose, Ives puffed himself up haughtily. "I'll have you know there are none with better sense than I! Why, even the Empress herself has-" He stopped, and a smile came to his face. "Well, well, speaking of mysteries..." He pointed to where two figures, still in travel-stained cloaks, stood deep in conversation next to the wall of the courtyard. "Care to meet your pupil, mon freré?" He grinned as Jean's eyes followed the line of his finger to the pair of hooded dammes. "I'll introduce you myself! Letting them know my introduction was a ruse is no terrible sin. After all... It's a mere matter of time before they too reach that threshold wherein it is too much to possibly love me anymore, and instead they begin to hate for reprieve."

His twin brother simply shook his head and wondered aloud, "Is it possible to start in the second stage?"

"Fiend," Ives huffed, moving forward and pulling the hat from his head and the raggedy coat from his back. With both over his arm he looked to be a very different man indeed - well coiffed save for the dirt he'd polished on for effect wherever the coat did not cover, and sharply dressed in a ruff-collared shirt and a vest in the same leather that made up his breeches. "Mademoiselles! Welcome home, hm?"

They turned and looked at him. Isabeau giggled as Livilla, face still shrouded by her hood, said, "You took your addlepated time, lout. I thought you'd lost your way. Odd for a Warden to forget how to find his own Keep."

"Livilla!" Isabeau said with a playful nudge. "You know that wasn't what we were worried about." Reaching up, she pushed her own hood back and wrapped her fingers in her black hair, untying it from the knotted bun she'd put it in for traveling. "So you're a twin?" she asked Ives as she brought her hair over her shoulder and began combing her hair through it. "What's the handsome one's name?"

"Jean," Ives supplied in the very same moment and breath as Jean when he answered, "Ives."

Isabeau smiled as Livilla shook her head. The movement shifted her hood back a little bit, and Ives saw more than a mere hint of the scars he'd glimpsed earlier, crisscrossing her lower jaw and neck before disappearing under her clothing. He managed not to stare, but he was now very curious about her appearance. "Well, at least one of you is honest," Livilla noted.

"Livilla!" Isabeau gasped.

Ives got the feeling that Isabeau rather enjoyed her friend's acerbic comments, even if they treaded beyond politeness into the realm of insult. Clearing his throat, he drew their attention to him once more. "That is, I am Ives, and this is Jean, and we are both handsome, oui?" One of Ives' baby blues winked, and in particular he seemed to be aiming the following shift of focus to Livilla. It was brief, though - not the least because Ives flourished and tilted downwards at the waist for a bow, limited by their close quarters. "We are in fact twins, and of a like mind about making sure neither of you lovelies have anything to worry about at all within these gates."

"Isn't it hot for a cloak like that?" Jean wondered innocently enough, not having received the full report of how these two hid. "What's your rank? Perhaps we have some armor you could change into within your size."

"She doesn't need armor," Isabeau said hastily as Livilla edged away. "She's my servant. It's been arranged with the Warden-Commander that once I become a Grey Warden, she'll stay on here in a similar capacity. She's a marvelous seamstress."

Livilla groaned. "Isabeau, that means something different in Val Royeaux, remember?"

Isabeau looked a bit confused. "I don't-" Then she suddenly turned bright red. "Oh... Oh, right. I, ah, forgot. I haven't been in Val Royeaux since I was quite young." Clearing her throat, she hurriedly continued, "Ah, not that kind, but she's truly a marvel with needles. Not that I have much need for a variety of clothes, of course." She looked down at her rather plain traveling outfit. "Recruits rarely do."

"At any rate, you shouldn't see much of me after this, ser," Livilla said, addressing Jean. "And no great loss, I assure you." Still, she seemed to be regarding him closely. "Jean... Jean... Jean Durante?"

"Oh!" Isabeau gasped. "The specialist in sword and shield?" Now she seemed to be all business, throwing her hair back as she moved closer to Jean and peered up at him. "You were the one Warden-Commander Giselle in Montfort recommended to talk to about further weapons work. There hasn't been anyone at Montfort who can even make me break into a sweat for years. Will you be able to take me on for advanced instruction?" Her face broke into a wide smile. "And you're so tall! I've rarely been able to go against such a tall opponent - for some reason, the men at Montfort tend to be more Livilla's height." With a shake of her head, she continued to question him, expression intent. "Will I have an opportunity to see you handle your blade? I'm sure it's a fine one!"

Ives noticed an interesting thing as Isabeau got excited: instead of the accent of a rustic Orlesian she'd been sporting, her tone became smoother, more cultured. Not quite like his own or Jean's, but certainly not like the country cousin from the less populated portions of Orlais which she'd pretended to thus far. He put a hand over his mouth to hide the smile at her eagerness. It was a bit incongruous, to see such a petite thing throwing detailed questions about swords and shields at his brother with seemingly no awareness of the other meaning of the word blade. He saw that Livilla had turned her head and was trying very hard not to make a noise, but her shoulders were shaking suspiciously.

Obviously, he could not interrupt this priceless conversation. Especially when he noticed Jean's ears adopting a tinge of red. Though a man of pure heart and a noble soul, he did have three children of his own, and had spent enough time in Court and around the Orlesian Game that triple entendres were familiar to him, much less unwitting double ones. Ives held down the smirk as best he could, but he did feel much the same as Livilla.

"Ah, yes," he finally said, moving forward, a hand reaching to the shoulders of both warriors so he could turn them and aim them across the courtyard. "I happen to know quite well that Jean's blade is most fine indeed. Coveted even. And he decidedly handles it with spectacular precision. You can hear the praise clear across the Keep after a good ... duel. Rest assured there will be a vigorous instruction with vast quantities of sweat. Why, I am positive you will be the most fulfilled - daresay satisfied - as you have been in years. Go! Go on, before you lose the sun! It would be a shame to not christen your arrival with a spar!"

Jean was sputtering at this point, and Ives was just barely holding down against the urge to laugh, but ... he was glad for it. After meeting that man in the streets, he wasn't feeling so at ease about his promise to keep the Warden's Keep worry-free.

Isabeau's ears had also turned red, but as she turned to glare at Ives, her expression became distracted. "Perhaps we should just go to our rooms," she said softly. Wriggling away from Ives, she took Livilla's hand and pulled her away, hard enough that the hood came loose.

Ives saw a face marked by more scars than he'd ever seen outside those who regularly patrolled the Deep Roads, though the quick glimpse was more a general impression than any details. The haste with which they moved away filled him with disquiet once more, and he craned his head, trying to see anything amiss, but saw nothing. While Ives was frowning, Jean put his fear to words.

"Look what you did," his brother - the far more upstanding of the pair - scolded. "They're new, they must have been mor ... mor- mor... mortified," he finally blurted in his native tongue, and Ives knew how flustered he must have made him if he threw aside the Trade tongue, "- than I am!"

"It may have been ill-timed," Ives agreed, still looking around, "though I'm not so certain the reason is what you believe. Let them go to their room. Perhaps it's safer for them there. I am going to go be certain our guests are properly recorded by our lovely little wood nymph." Before Jean could respond, Ives was running by, patting his shoulder, and disappeared into the Keep.

Life had just become a bit more dangerous.