The first few moments of wakefulness, Margo has absolutely no idea where she is. She reaches over, expecting Mindy's furry butt strategically parked on the pillow next to her, but finds nothing – no cat butt, and no pillow, only some kind of prickly texture that smells of hay, and, faintly, bats.
It comes back to her then, and for the first time since she's landed in this insane whatever it is… Dimension? Universe? Reality?... She has a visceral feeling of dislocation.
She groans and sits up. Her body's general state is fairly typical of your standard, run of the mill, hangover. Or, if you want to be a bit more precise about it, what happens to the body when it's tasked with processing too much of a toxic substance in too short of a time. Except, there is an additional layer of unpleasantness, whereby the body itself doesn't feel like it fits quite right.
Which, all things considered, is still pretty typical of a hangover.
She forces herself into an upright position, desperately wishing for a hot shower, or better yet, a long hot soak, and then proceeds to put on clothes that really could stand a wash as well. She doesn't remember undressing. She considers briefly that she should be ravenous, but the thought is an abstraction, with very little bearing on reality. Instead, her stomach feels like it's having an identity crisis about its role in the great digestive scheme of things.
Well, what do you know, Minaeve's chosen potion really did cause unpleasant gastric symptoms after all.
The memories of the previous night are…not fuzzy, exactly, but so entirely surreal that she has no idea how to begin to process any of them. She firmly puts the entire clusterfuck aside. She'll deal with it later. She's pretty sure it'll all be still there right where she left it.
Margo stumbles down to the first floor of the apothecary, and peers out of the window. It's still dark, so she presumably has some time until "first light," whatever that is.
There is a note, next to a stoppered bottle on the table, as well as a carafe of some kind of liquid, and a plate of bread, cheese, and pickled vegetables.
"Apprentice,
Congratulations, again. Welcome to the ranks (officially).
Drink the draught – your liver will thank you for it. If you're still alive by afternoon, come find Cullen and I for further instructions.
~A.
PS: You did well for yourself, fledgling. I've seen Imshael's Bargain really do a number on much more experienced candidates. Fun as it is to watch, I had hoped you'd manage to weasel through, and you did.
PPS: You're going to want to puke your guts out this morning, but make sure you eat anyway."
She re-reads the note once more, and then folds it and tucks it away into her coat pocket.
She drinks the draught first, which tastes very pleasantly of verbena and hibiscus, and less pleasantly of rotten eggs.
But it does the job rather quickly. By the time she manages to convince herself that the need to eat is not just a cultural construction and starts in on the cheese and bread, she's feeling more or less like her old self. Or new self. Whatever.
Just as Margo pours some of the still warm liquid from the clay carafe – and it doesn't smell like coffee, but there is definitely an earthy, nutty aroma to it that's telling her nose that it's bitter and just might have caffeine - there's a knock on her door.
She startles.
"It's me, Prickly. You presentable?"
Margo walks over to the door, and lets the dwarf in. The storm outside has subsided, but only after delivering about three feet of snow in its wake, which means that there is a Varric-sized tunnel in the snowbank leading up to the Apothecary.
"Come in. You must be freezing. Want some… uh…something warm to drink?"
She was about to say coffee.
"Thanks, Prickly. Maker's Balls, it's cold."
Varric knocks the snow off his boots, proceeds inside, and quickly occupies the chair vacated earlier by Enchanter Minaeve. Margo gives him a passably clean beaker, and pours from the carafe.
They settle across each other at the desk.
"So. To what do I owe the pleasure?" Margo ventures. Because, really, that is a remarkably early visit.
"Well… I volunteered as the designated escort for your little conversation with Leliana, and since I've been on the pointy end of those talks, I figured I'd come by and give you a sense of how these tend to proceed."
The dwarf sounds sarcastic and dead serious all at the same time.
"My guess would be, mostly badly" Margo offers.
"Yep. Emotional manipulation, mind games, threatening your loved ones, ideological guilt trips about how much of a bad Andrastean you are, and when all else fails, good old torture. The classic repertoire."
Margo sighs, and pinches the bridge of her nose. Not that she didn't suspect something like this already, but hearing it from the horse's mouth is a whole new magnitude of unpleasant.
"So. As the recipient of the aforementioned treatment. Do you think there's anything I can do to make the whole experience…less life-threatening?"
Varric grins, and takes a big gulp of his non-coffee. Then proceeds to help himself to a pickle.
"As a matter of fact, Prickly, I do." He chews, with a distinctly contemplative look. "You should always tell the truth. Just decide which truth you're fine with them knowing."
Margo considers this. The trouble is that she herself doesn't have a very firm way of evaluating the "truthfulness" of any of this world's propositions, in particular after last night's debacles. And outside of some kind of zany "I come in peace, take me to your leader," which she is pretty sure will notgo over well with the Spymaster, all other truths seem to have a bad case of relativity.
"Varric, can I ask you a rather random question?"
Varric leans back, ankle over one knee, arm over the back of his chair, non-coffee in hand. Margo notes that the dwarf is really not timid about his chest hair.
"I love random questions, Prickly. They always make for the best stories."
Great.
"How can you tell if something's an illusion?" She pauses, considering. "As in, how can you tell that something is actually true? Not only in your head, but actually the reflection of an objective reality? Like, the Fade, say?"
Varric whistles between his teeth.
"You know, asking a dwarf about the Fade is sort of like asking a blind man what color the sky is."
He takes a sip from his cup.
Margo frowns.
"Lets hypothetically say that you're exposed to something that causes you to hallucinate. I'm trying to figure out whether the hallucinations are just in my head, or if they've got some grounding in truth."
Varric looks at her with his very unassumingly careful stare, and then nods.
"I see what you're getting at, Prickly. But I don't think there's an easy answer to that. Let's take a few different examples. I knew a guy once – real nug-humping dipbag, that one – but he got ahold of a very powerful artefact, and sure enough, he went completely ballistic. Lots of slaughtering of innocents and such. But does it mean the stuff the artifact was whispering had no basis in reality? I'm not sure."
He's still mulling it over, so Margo waits for him to continue.
"On the other hand, you have your run of the mill desire demon that feeds you happy thoughts until you're pretty much nothing more than a drooling husk. And in the end, it always turns out that it's just a purple lady with a cone-shaped head and a really impressive rack. But you'd never know just by looking at it."
Margo feels goosebumps spread along her spine.
"A desire demon?"
Varric shrugs.
"I mean, some have specific names, mostly though they tend to go with whatever's in vogue with the clientele of, say, The Blooming Rose. Not to say that all the girls at the Rose are desire demons, mind you, though there was that one time…"
Margo decides that whatever kind of establishment The Blooming Rose is, it is unlikely to be a burger joint.
"Wait…"
Then, the proverbial light bulb goes off… Or, rather, flickers on with a splutter, because her capacity for critical thinking is not at its sharpest this morning. Really, she should have put two and two together earlier.
"So there are demons. And then there are spirits. Are they qualitatively analogous?"
Varric harrumphs.
"You know, Prickly, you and Chuckles would really hit it off. He's a sucker for a fancy turn of phrase too. And he likes to overthink everything. Anyway, that's the golden nug question, right there. Depends on who you ask. If you want the Chantry version, then yeah, they're all bad news, all hell-bent on destroying humanity and leading poor hapless Templars and mages into temptation. If you want a more nuanced answer, you really ought to talk to Solas. Just don't tell Curly I sent you, he'll get his knickers in a twist and then go tattle to the Seeker. We're going to be ass deep in apostates and Templars as it is, and I really don't want another lecture on the dangers of moral relativism as we trudge through the mess in the Hinterlands."
Why is it that every conversation with the dwarf seems to end with "go ask Solas"?
"How did we get to this topic anyway? Are you seeing weird shit too, in addition to memory loss?"
"Something like that."
"How's your memory, then? Anything come back?"
Margo nibbles on a piece of cheese as she thinks. Eventually, she shrugs.
"Actually, yes. Some of it."
Varric nods.
"Well, lets hope whatever you got makes the Spymaster happy. And on that note… You ready for the chopping block?"
She supposes there's no point in delaying the inevitable, so Margo picks up the rest of the antidote from the previous night, and downs the by now cold liquid with a disgusted shudder. Sorry, liver.
They walk out of the Apothecary and make their way towards the temple. The sky is overcast, but the early morning gloom seems to suggest that somewhere, in a better world, the sun is thinking of making an appearance. She supposes that "first light" is not designed to be an exact description.
The camp is oddly lively already. People are bustling about busily, carrying crates and sacks in every imaginable direction. Soldiers, their faces still soft with sleep, trail down towards the training grounds.
"Animated this morning" Margo remarks, mostly to herself.
"Like a bunch of pissed-off wasps that got their nest trampled. That's the thing, Prickly. We're slated to leave mid-morning."
The dwarf's voice is not particularly jovial.
"You're also of the persuasion that this is a bad idea?"
Varric sighs.
"I just have a bad feeling about this. And the thing is, I'm usually right about these things."
They stop a few yards from the Spymaster's tent.
"Listen, in case shit goes tits up for either of us…"
She pivots to face the dwarf, and sure enough, there is no trace of his usual humor. He looks… like someone who's seen too many things go "tits up" in his lifetime, and is proper sick of it.
"You want me to relay any sort of message? I know you and Evie hit it off. Something tells me the kid would feel better with a pep talk in person, but failing that, do you want me to pass your warm regards?"
Margo forces a smile.
"Tell her to not get killed. And to stay away from fruity drinks." She hesitates. "And tell her she can do this."
He grins at her.
"I can do that. Don't worry. Our friend Jan is not getting anywhere near her while I'm around, or he'll have a nice little chat with Bianca's business end. Besides, the Seeker is enough of a fun repellant in her own right, can't imagine there'll be too many amorous suiters with her around. Anything else? How about Chuckles, any messages for him?"
She can't help but wonder why he's asking. But of course, she has a suspicion that Varric notices a whole lot more than he lets on.
"Just…" What the hell can she actually say? "Tell him that next time he suggests I make a formula that requires druffalo piss – or any other kind of bodily fluid - I'm going to send him to collect it."
Varric guffaws.
"That, Prickly, I will relay, just to see the expression on his face."
She considers him for a few seconds.
"Varric, stay safe. All of you. I still owe you a beer, remember?"
"Oh, don't worry. I never forget." He claps her on the shoulder. "See you on the other side."
And with this, he turns around, and starts trudging down the slope. Margo squashes the feeling that she's not going to see any of them again with a firm mental whack, and covers the distance to the tent.
As it turns out, Torquemada is already waiting, once again contemplating her maps. Does she ever get cold? Scratch that, does she ever sleep? Or eat? Or do anything besides being quietly menacing?
"Ah, good of you to come in such a timely fashion, Agent. Shall we?"
Margo nods, and follows the woman towards the temple. They walk in silence into the structure's foyer, and for a few seconds, Margo gawks at the soaring columns and beautiful masonry. The building is truly majestic in its own right, and on a better day, she would love to get a sense of its layout, to try to glean the underpinning symbolism of its architecture.
"This way" Torquemada directs, and before she knows it, they are descending down a narrow stone staircase into what is either a crypt, or a dungeon, or a combination of the two. Torquemada, for her part, keeps herself just a few feet behind, and Margo has to contend with the unnerving feeling that at any point she might get shoved down the stairs.
She wonders briefly at the absence of guards. Either the Spymaster is reasonably sure that Margo will not try anything funny, or that she can take her without any assistance. Of course, she's not wrong, but she can't possibly know that – so what's the catch?
They make it down to a room with a desk, two chairs, and something that looks a whole lot like a rack of primitive dentistry instruments, although Margo is reasonably certain that their actual purpose is not to mend the results of poor dental hygiene.
"Please" the Spymaster offers. "Do sit."
The chair looks unassuming enough. Margo sits.
"Do not let our lack of escort deceive you, my agents are everywhere in the building. If you try to resist, you will not get much further than the confines of this room" Torquemada informs her in a light conversational tone.
As if to prove this point, an elf with a large burn scar across one cheek partially obscured by an oversized green hood materializes from behind a column – although the effect is more like he's just risen out of primordial emptiness – and snaps a pair of manacles on Margo's wrists before she can even try to put up any sort of protest.
Torquemada, for her part, brings back a neat little leather case from the dentistry rack, and unfolds it on the table. Predictably, its contents do not inspire optimism.
"I have no taste for this sort of thing, Agent" Torquemada informs her, and by the tone of her voice, Margo actually believes her. This is all business, no pleasure. "So I am hoping we can avoid any unnecessary unpleasantness, and keep the conversation civil. And to this end…"
She extracts a needle from the case, and proceeds to dip it into a narrow vial of murky liquid. Margo hopes it's some kind of disinfectant solution, because otherwise, she really can't recall when her last tetanus booster was.
"Hold out your hand, please."
"May I ask what this is?" she manages, because asking an excessive amount of technical questions about unpleasant procedures is how she's always dealt with doctors' appointments and other such encounters. Not that she's had experience with outright torture before…
"Ah, of course. I forget that you are now pursuing Alchemy. This is something that was developed by the Antivan Crows, specifically for interrogating assassins that are suspected of going rogue. The recipe is a trade secret, you understand, but I can tell you a little bit about the effects, if you're interested."
Assassins gone rogue? Oh dear Lord…
"By all means" Margo grits through her teeth, which she's desperately trying to keep from chattering uncontrollably.
Torquemada smiles pleasantly.
"Here." Before Margo can react, the red-head – should ask her for some urine too - jabs the needle into the tip of Margo's finger. The prick is sharp, but no worse than getting a blood sample.
"Good. Now, while it's taking effect… The reason we use this now is that anything administered orally is too easily counteracted with something like Andraste's Promise or any other readily available antidote. You know, it's quite funny, even something as simple as charcoal can offset a lot of effects. And we don't want that."
Is she talking about activated carbon? They have activated carbon in Thedas? Margo shakes her head. Of course they do.
And of course, they would have anticipated any commonly available antidote.
"And this particular formula has the advantage of doing a lot of the work that would be traditionally done by a specialist without resorting to more…intensive procedures. This profession can be difficult on people."
Right. Torturers get burned out. Who would have thought. Tragic, that. Margo hopes they have a good union.
"In any case, this is a simple interrogation formula. It produces extremely uncomfortable effects when a suspect tries to lie. This, in turn, leads to two results. First, that your body will quickly dissuade you from lying, and second, that lies are easily noticeable based on body language, such that even an untrained interrogator can usually get a good read on the situation."
Lecture delivered, Torquemada proceeds to sit on the other side of the desk.
"Any questions?"
"How long do the effects last?" Margo asks, and at this point, something must be happening, because she is feeling oddly relaxed.
"An hour or two at most. That's usually more than enough time."
Margo nods, and is a bit dismayed to find herself giving Torquemada a friendly smile. Because really, the Spymaster is very helpful in explaining all this, and it's nice that she's taken the time…
She frowns. Uh-oh.
"Good. It looks like we can start any time. So, we will proceed as follows. I will ask you questions, and you will answer them. That's really all there is to it. And when we're done… Well. Let's not get ahead of ourselves. Shall we?"
Margo nods again.
"What happened to your patrol?"
Well, that part, at least, is easy.
"They were killed."
She looks for a change in her general physical state, but there isn't one. Well, maybe a slight sense of accomplishment at a job well done.
"Indeed they were. Did you kill them?"
"No."
Same effects. She can do this.
"Good. Did you know they would get slaughtered?"
"No."
So far so good.
"Were they killed by the Qunari?"
"No."
She can totally do this.
"Do you know who?"
"Yes. Tevinter mages."
This seems to give Torquemada some food for thought, because she hesitates for a few moments, a slight frown on her face. While she's deliberating with herself, Margo finds that her hands have become very sensitive, and she's obsessively fiddling with a sharp metal snag that protrudes from one of her manacles. It's a twist in the metal that almost feels like the tip of a dull pair of scissors. Maybe someone tried to break free, and didn't quite manage the job, but mangled the manacles in the process. Right. Just like the Inquisition to use second-hand restraints.
Her hands are in her lap, and she hopes that Torquemada doesn't notice and immediately assume that she's picking a lock (as if she could), and not just neurotically fiddling with the cuffs.
"What were you doing when the patrol was attacked?"
Ah. And that's where the proverbial tires hit the road. Margo works against the compulsion to blurt out that she was boinking a guy in robes – and then supply some more helpful details, like the fact that the mage was quite attractive and very good at it, but not quite her type. Or that she's not entirely sure what to make of the fact that the only reason she knows this is because Solas had reconstructed the memory for her. And that the whole thing led to a pretty awkward thing between them that she's been trying not to consider too closely because she's pretty sure the experience wasn't altogether unpleasant for her, or for him either, despite the fact that it really should have been, and what does that mean, exactly? Or that, really, the only reason she's even had to do this is because I come in peace, take me to your leader, and that she really should have made use of the university's discount for getting a regular therapist appointment, but it's too late now…
She brings the runaway thought train to a screeching halt before it completely derails.
"I was occupied elsewhere" she says instead, and then is slammed with a sense of profound, soul-sucking failure.
Torquemada smiles, and there's really nothing friendly about it this time.
"So I gather. Doing what, precisely?"
And at that point, Margo realizes just how much shit she's in. At least she understands the mechanism now. It's a simple behaviorist principle: a biochemical reward for running off at the mouth, and a punishment for even so much as withholding irrelevant details. Let alone lying – she can't imagine the sort of psychological whiplash that outright lying would produce. And indeed, the interrogator doesn't have to lift a finger. Her own body is, once again, her worst enemy.
It really is becoming a bad habit.
"Having sex" she finally says. Because, really, that's better than the expanded alternative.
Torquemada raises a quizzical eyebrow.
"Ah. And who with, pray tell?"
Swallowing another nascent tirade on the technical ambiguities required to provide an accurate answer to this question, Margo limits her answer to "A mage." And actually gets a nice warm and fuzzy reward, apparently quite visible on her face, if Torquemada's surprised expression is anything to go by. If she really wanted to make the most of this, she'd have to say "two mages" as the most formally accurate response. Though that might give Torquemada the wrong sort of idea…
"Interesting." The Spymaster interlaces her fingers, but there is something speculative about her gaze. As if this was not precisely what she had expected. Or rather, as if she did not expect Margo to fess up quite so easily. Well, sorry to disappoint…
"A Tevinter mage, by chance?"
"Yes." No reward or punishment for that one.
Torquemada considers this newly acquired information.
"That you will admit this with such ease tells me one of two things. You are rightfully blaming yourself for your unforgivable dalliance with an enemy, and are in fact looking for situations that would most effectively end you. This is consistent with you defying orders, and participating in the battle at the Temple of Sacred Ashes. And with your reckless behavior there, which, I should remind you, I witnessed first-hand. If this is the case, I assure you I will oblige your desire to die at the end of this conversation."
Margo swallows against bile rising in her throat.
Torquemada pauses, steeples her fingers, and props her chin on top of them - an incongruously casual gesture. "Alternatively, you are notembarrassed by this at all. If so, then the only possible explanation is that you were using sex to try to gain an advantage – perhaps looking to gather information on the Tevinter presence on the Coast. This, of course, would be mostly in the interest of the Qunari, which brings me to my next question. Were you spying on Tevinter?"
Margo looks at Torquemada, and all she can see, once again, is a grinning skull. This is it, then. The end of the road. If she says yes, she'll get slammed with negative biochemical feedback, because lets face it, Maile was not spying on anyone. She just... really had a thing for this particular robed fuckwit. So it will be a lie, and the Spymaster will know.
And if she says no, then she is done.
In a split second decision, Margo jams the sharp protrusion from her manacle into the webbing between her thumb and forefinger, hoping that she can hit the pressure point without looking.
The pain is blinding. Her skin explodes in goosebumps, and tears spring to her eyes.
"No" she says through the pain, and not even the inbuilt reward mechanism of the truth serum can override her body's shocked reaction.
Torquemada's eyebrows shoot up.
"I see" she says and length. "So. Spying on Tevinter, but not in an official capacity. Certainly not at our behest, anyway. Are you with the Ben Hassrath?"
What happens if she says no when she doesn't know the answer? When, in fact, she does not understand the question? Would her body interpret the statement as a lie?
"Yes" she says, and is crushed by a wave of bleak hopelessness. So, yes. For all intents and purposes, a failure to respond accurately is always classified as a lie.
At this point Torquemada is looking genuinely confused. And then, some cog clicks into place, because the Spymaster actually beams at her.
"Of course. Of course, I should have thought of this sooner. Charter has always had a … soft spot for some of her girls. Perhaps you did not reciprocate and she sent you on a little vigilante mission above your paygrade and skill. Or maybe you did reciprocate, and she promoted you before you were ready. I've long wondered about some of her decisions… but this does put things in a new light. And the Tevinter mage, presumably, beat you to the punch, as it were."
Torquemada stands up, and starts pacing.
"Which can happen to the best of us, in this game. Much of this is luck and timing." For a flicker of a second the Spymaster almost looks like a reasonable person. It doesn't last long. "And of course, your reticence to come forward… yes. Whatever happened between you and Charter, you must still be loyal to her. This is the woman who trained you. Your loyalty to her would precede any loyalty you might have for the Inquisition…
Vassal of my vassal is not my vassal. Thank you, medieval code of honor.
Of course, this will still likely end in her throat being slit. Margo wishes she'd had the time to give Evie that pep talk. And have a beer with Varric. And learn how to process Lyrium. And... Yes, alright. The elf. She's not sure what she wants to do with him, exactly, but being out of time precludes the possibility of ever answering that question.
In the meantime, Torquemada seems to come to a decision.
"One more question, Agent. Do you feel responsible for the death of your patrol?"
Oh, Unspecified Creator Deighty's Hairy Scrotum, is that a trick question?
"Yes" she says. And it's not a lie. Maile did feel responsible. Just for a different set of reasons. And she, Margo, feels bad for them. And bad for taking over Maile's body as the woman launched herself on a suicide mission. And kind of bad for having survived in her stead.
Her body doesn't react.
This, apparently, seems to satisfy the Spymaster.
"Under typical circumstances, I would not let this slide, Agent. But you have potential, and these are not typical circumstances." She fixes her with her cool gaze. "You're an elf. It couldn't have been easy to let a Tevinter have his way with you on the slim hope that this might lend a strategic advantage. Not if we consider the history of your two people. No matter what they say, this part of the Game does not come easily for a woman. It takes true steel." And at that moment, whatever's in the Spymaster's expression actually makes her look more human to Margo than she's ever seemed.
Does this mean she is not going to get killed in some dank crypt?
"Very well. You will immediately cease all contacts with Charter, and you will have to pledge an oath of loyalty to me, directly. Or better yet, to the Inquisition. Do not think that I will hesitate to eliminate you at the first sign of a misstep. Do you understand me?"
Margo nods, though she really isn't sure what she's nodding to at this point.
"We will do this right now."
The Spymaster stands, and approaches Margo's chair.
And then, her hands are free of manacles.
"Repeat after me."
And so, she repeats the oath that the Spymaster enunciates to her, entirely unable to understand, let alone process its words.
"You are free to go, Agent. Report to Cullen for your next assignment for the time being." And as Margo stands up, on completely rubbery legs, and makes her way towards the stairs, Torquemada calls after her.
"I might make use of your particular talents and willingness to employ them at a later date. No sense in wasting potential that is already there."
Oh yay, Margo thinks to herself. This just keeps getting better.
This chapter was brought to you by vervain (or verbena), classically used against insomnia, anxiety, women health issues, and as a liver tonic. In other words, pretty much exactly what poor Margo needs.
A quick meta note: I am porting this story from AO3, in order to have it consolidated in a single place. AO3 screwed up and orphaned it by accident, which means I had to split it, and I wanted to have it somewhere where it's not divided up. I'm also taking the opportunity to edit it. So, if you like what you're reading, you can either wait for it to unfold here, and I'll be posting on a tight schedule until all the chapters are uploaded, but you can also go an read it on AO3 if you prefer. Here are the links:
Part 1: /works/11778627/chapters/26557722
Part 2: /works/13673376/chapters/31408995
Coming up: Pointless conflicts, sanctimonious Chantry Mothers, and a weird bearded dude training farmers for a peasant uprising.
