"Don't panic, breath in slow,

Don't panic, hold your nerve,

Don't panic, 'cause they'll realise, and they'll see it in your eyes."

-Molotov Jukebox, Don't Panic!

Between the spires of the Sacrario del Redentore a yellow fog clung. When the Cathedral's glittering glass domes peaked over the hillside the sight brought a cheer from the ragged band of mercenaries. She smiled. It had been a long journey. Approaching Antiva City by land had been a fool's errand but there was no Captain brave enough to sail the Rialto when its mood was so tempestuous. She urged the horse forward with a tap of her heels bending low on the neck of the chestnut mare, muttering assurances of a warm stable with plenty of oats.

The Captain of the Silver Foxes urged his horse next to hers. He was a grey man, garbed in the shade from head to toe, even his skin was ashen. They had crossed swamps, deserts and dales together and she could not help but feel affection for the warrior.

"What is your intention in the city?" His voice was as gravelly as his face, the reins tight around his wrists.

"Have you ever seen Antiva City at Saturnalia? It's a sight worth travelling for," she flashed him a smile and his impressive eyebrows met in confusion. "I intend to drink and dance and sing, my friend and what better place than here."

"If that's true then you are a very strange woman," he shook his great head. They trotted together as the road inclined, winding up the hillside towards the southern gate of the city.

"And what are your intentions, my good man? You do not seem the type for dancing."

"Even in Cumberland rumours of the weakening Crows reach our ears," it was his turn to grin, humourless and black toothed. "We intend to pick up any slack."

The dirt roads became rocky the further they ascended and they slowed the horses to better traverse the dangerous ground. The walls of the city loomed above, creating long shadows in the drizzled light. She had never seen fortifications like this before; the smooth stones were polished, ungraspable for anyone foolhardy enough to storm the nest of assassins. Two men stood guarding the gate. As they rode closer she saw the crest of the merchant prince Valisti emblazoned on their armour.

"Let me do the talking," she whispered to her companion, trotting her mare slightly faster than his. She slipped on her mask effortlessly; straightening her stance, pursing her lips.

"State your business," one of the steel encased guards ordered. She stopped but did not dismount.

"I am Gabriella Roux, dressmaker to her eminence, Empress Celene," she poured her Orlesian accent over her Antivian like honey.

"And these men behind you, they are not dressmakers too?" Both guards guffawed.

"How dare you?" she acted affronted, letting a snarl form on her lips. "These men are my escort. Perhaps if your country could control their Dalish there would be no need for them." Her mare snorted impatiently, pawing at the ground.

"Alright then milady, let's have a look at these wares you've got..." He indicated the wagon pulling up with a nod of his head.

"Are all Antivians so impertinent?" she hissed. "These are not some gaudy trinkets I'll allow you to poke around with your common hands. These are the finest dresses in Thedas. If you shall not let me in then I insist upon speaking with Claudio, he'll sort this mess out."

"Claudio...?" the other guard stammered.

"Yes, Claudio Valisti, the man who's crest you wear. He and I go back quiet some time..." she narrowed her eyes; hoping against all hope that this final lie would be enough.

"Alright, alright milady," the first guard said gruffly. "You and the men can go in," he signalled to someone above. The portcullis rose begrudgingly, rattling and straining. She thanked the Maker for ignorant guards.

The streets were dense with people, crowded around stalls, creaking under their wares. She breathed in deeply, the sharp scents of the city welcoming her. She dismounted, making her way to a bewildered looking stable boy, passing him the reins and a handful of bronze. The Silver Foxes assembled, wary eyed and dirt strewn, they packed around the wagon tightly.

"This is where we part company, my friend," she pressed her hand into the callous marked Captain's.

"If you're ever in need of work little lady, seek us out," he grunted as she swung her pack off the wagon, slinging it in an easy movement over her shoulder next to her bow.

"I am sure I'll have enough to keep me occupied," she grinned, waving to the mercenaries as she darted between the crowds.

Now to find you, my dearest Warden.

The Sacrario del Redentore was much lighter and airier than the Grand Cathedral in Val Royeaux. Light spilled in from the great glass domes, catching the gold and copper leaves that spiralled round huge wooden pillars. Andraste watched, solemn and stone, over all this decadence. The eyes of the magnificent statue seemed to follow her about the deserted chamber. She took a seat towards the back, marvelling at the Maker's splendours, clutching the gold symbol of Andraste she wore about her neck. Patiently she waited.

"My hearth is yours, my bread is yours, my life is yours," he whispered behind her. She had not heard him enter the Cathedral but that was as it should be.

"For all who walk in the sight of the Maker are one," she replied, stifling her grin, not turning around.

"It is good to see you Sister Nightingale," she imagined she could feel his breath on the back of her neck but she knew she was just being romantic.

"You too, Brother Sweet Robin." He laughed; a deep and wholesome baritone.

"Ah, that nickname will forever haunt me, you are cruel to mention it," he said. "How are things in Denerim my dear?"

"Oh no that's not how this game is played. You're first, like a true gentlemen," still she did not look at him, her head pointed to her hands, resting demurely in her lap.

"What would you wish of me, my dear?"

"The Warden, where is she?"

"She was certainly here..." he broke off. The great doors had creaked open to admit a small band of worshippers. Slowly they proceeded down the aisle, the Chant warbling from their lips, echoing into the great rafters above.

"What do you mean, 'was?'" she asked when they were well out of earshot. Worry began to creep into her gut.

"She took over three cells of Crows, many were calling for her to be appointed Guildmaster," he said hastily. "Then, four nights ago, she vanished. My men and her own have been tirelessly searching, but there has been no sign."

"Her men?"

"Another Grey Warden mage; goes by the name Anders, the Rivani pirate Isabela and two Crows; Aldo Rossetti and Guido Cavalcanti."

"What about Zevran?"

"There has been no sign of the elf."

"Who do you suspect?"

"Of taking her?" she could hear a surprised twang in his voice. "It is not our job to make assumptions; it is our job to watch..."

"But..." she added, turning her face slightly to catch a glimpse of him.

"The things I do for you," he breathed so she could barely hear him. "Her men suspect the Cats, mercenaries who've been harrying the Crows."

"But you don't?" She heard the rustle of fabric as he lent forwards.

"When I first received your letter I had some of my men trail the Antivan Warden Commander, a foul man by the name of Hugo Hernandez," he took a deep breath. "We found evidence of corruption; missing Wardens, bribes being taken, shadowy meetings with men of ill repute. One of the men he was linked to died, killed by the woman you seek. Marco Despotolli, a Master of Crows."

"You think the Wardens took her?"

"I'm just telling you the facts," she heard him shrug and fall back into the pew. The worshippers continued to chant and for a while they both listened to the harmony. After the things Alistair had told her the news of Elaria's disappearance weighed heavy in her stomach. I should never have left you, my darling Elaria.

"It's your turn, Sister," he said, his words mingling with the Chant. "What news from Denerim?"

"Several months ago there was an attack on the King," she said eventually.

"By whom?"

"The Crows, who else?"

"I doubt it my dear, bids for foreign rulers within the Crows are extremely rare."

"Empress Celene was targeted as well."

"Certainly not the Crows, what would they have to gain by such brash moves? They have enough trouble here; to start a war at such a time would be ludicrous." Several Sisters had joined their flock, together they lit candles around the base of the statue and the sweet scent of incense filled the air.

"I have to go," she muttered. As she rose he leaned forward, grasping his hand in her own, pressing a folded piece of parchment into her palm.

"Directions," he grinned. "You'll find her men at the brothel."

The city swarmed and pulsated around her. Every street she turned into brought a different rhythm; feet danced and pounded to the beat. The air was ripe with booze, pungent with fire smoke. As she turned into the Piazza di Papaveri a handsome elf began reading bawdy poems to the crowd, his voice the perfect pitch to rumble over their laugher. She had to squeeze her way through, tapping shoulders, cautious of her backpack in such a tight space.

She knew the Pits when she saw it, wrinkled her nose at the stench of stagnant water and human waste. Children ran, naked and potbellied, through the streets. She could feel eyes watching her through the wooden slats of windows. Three men stumbled down the steps of a tavern, drunkenly shouting grotesque suggestions at the bard as she scurried past. The sun hung low in the sky when she reached the Nymph's Song.

She had heard the women shouting as she turned into the street. A scrawled sign in the window proclaimed all the rooms in the brothel to be taken. She trudged up the steps of the porch, wondering why, of all the wondrous places in this city, Elaria had chosen here. The glass in the door rattled as she opened it.

"Absolutely not." They stood the bar between them. The carefully applied paint cracked on the barmaid's face, the marks of age not hidden by the mask. The customer had her back to the bard, though she would recognise the pirate from any angle.

"Rosa, you are being completely unreasonable," Isabela drawled, leaning on the bar. The bard knew the pout those words contained.

"You and your broody meetings have taken too much custom from us; you do so even now," the Madam lifted her wiry head towards where the bard stood. "What can I do for you, my dear?" Even in the dull twilight her eyes sparkled. Isabela spun. The bard grinned.

"Leliana? Andraste's flaming tits," the pirate bristled towards her. "What are you doing here?" Their hands clasped together. "No, don't tell me," Isabela cut across her. "First a drink, if you'd be so kind Rosa."

"Coin first," the Madam replied curtly, crossing her arms under her considerable chest.

"Seriously? You tight fisted demon, she's an old friend..."

"I know what your friends are like," Rosa's pink lips pursed even tighter. "No offence, my dear," her tone shifted back to syrupy as she nodded at Leliana.

"None taken," the bard smirked, pulling up a stool. "Though I am certainly thirsty," she slid two silver coins across the greasy bar.

"How delightful your accent is, my dear," Rosa pocketed the coins swiftly and turned to pour the wine. "Such a sublime language, Orlesian," Isabela rolled her eyes.

"Such a flatter, you old fox," said Isabela. "Come on, sweet thing," the pirate threaded her fingers through Leliana's, clutching her wine in the other. "Let's go somewhere more comfortable."

She allowed herself to be led up the stairs and into a cramped corridor, thick with the scent of cheap perfume. In the room beyond a fire burned.

Leliana put down her backpack, her bow and her lute, running her hands through her hair as she sat heavily on an ancient day bed. She took a sip of her wine and grimaced.

"Hardly what they drink at the Royal Palace," Isabela hid her smirk in her glass.

"I know you've lost the Warden," Leliana narrowed her eyes at the startled look the pirate gave her.

"She's not a whelping pup, I didn't lose her," Isabela said. "She's just ... missing,"

"The King paid you to protect her, Isabela."

"Alistair's coin only got us as far as Llomerryn. My ship was wrecked in a storm on the Rialto," Isabela crossed her arms. "Besides it's not like I haven't been looking for her, she's important to a lot of people..." Isabela broke off, flames from the fire high in her eyes.

"Where are the others?"

"Who do you mean?"

"Anders and the two Crows."

"I'm not even going to ask how you know," Isabela shook her head. "Spying among friends is bad manners, Leliana."

"Old habits," Leliana shrugged. "You obviously need some help. This lead with the Cats is cold, they did not take her."

"I like you and all but you're beginning to unnerve me."

"Elaria killed a man," Leliana began, ignoring her. "Marco Despotolli? Ring any bells?" Isabela winced.

"So? The man was a complete swine..."

"He had friends in high places," Leliana swirled the vinegary wine, the red stained the glass.

"He also had a room full of starving Dalish children..."

"Hugo Hernandez."

"Never heard of him," Isabela shrugged. "And I know everyone who's anyone in this town."

"He's Commander of the Grey."

"Oh," Isabela grimaced. "Come to think of it we did find some documents with their seal when we raided Despotolli's."

"Where are these documents now?"

"I don't know, I gave them to Elaria," Isabela sighed. "Balls, this is such a mess."

Isabela rose leaving the warmth of the fire for the window. Leliana could see faint reflections in the glass, the Rivani's face solemn and sucked of colour haloed by the candles that burnt inside. She heard the front door of the brothel open and close, heeled feet pounded down the stairs, laughter and the clink of glasses.

"Let us make some order amidst the chaos, yes?" the bard said at last, spreading her palms out before her. "Where are Anders and the Crows?" she said, the pirate did not turn to sigh.

"Watching the wells," Isabela replied. "We uncovered a plot to poison the water supply."

"The Cats?"

"Who else?" Isabela shivered away from the window and curled her legs underneath her before the fire. "I was supposed to meet Anders here at sundown..." she trailed off, eyebrows meeting reluctantly.

"Then you must stay here," Leliana rose, stretching the sleep from her bones.

"Where are you going?"

"To get some answers," she curled her fingers around her bow, strapping the delicately carved Dragonthorn to her back.

"I'll come with you."

"You must wait for Anders," the quiver next, still full of deadly steel. "Besides, one may go where two cannot."

The banners fluttered in the breeze, silver and blue she knew, though all was grey in the darkness. A handful of guards warmed their hands over a blazing fire in the courtyard, on each shield on each back a griffon flew. She could smell the rich notes of ale on the crisp night air. She crept under the raised portcullis, sticking close to the shadows of the wall. The guard's guffaws followed her as she reached the base of the tower. Warm candle light spilled out of the main door as it opened, flooding the steps with its glow for an instant. She breathed slowly, her back to the tower as she shuffled its circumference. Halfway round an outhouse protruded from its base, where a window stood ajar. Keeping low to the ground she slunk towards it.

All was still. She chanced a look. Embers burnt in a grate, pots and pans littered every surface, the stench of burnt garlic clung to everything. A chair, which could barely stand the weight of the man on it, stood by the stove. He breathed in a heavy daze, wine bottles scattered at his feet. She crouched on the slate ledge, one hand gripping the frame, the other tucking the tip of her bow down. Every time the man snorted she froze in place. Once her head was in she crawled onto the worktop, moving aside unwashed plates and cutlery, wary of every clink of steel against china, every tinkle of glass against wood. Finally she managed to place her feet on the granite floor of the kitchen.

The cook did not wake as she slunk towards the door. He turned in his sleep, knocking over the drunken bottles at his feet, and though a great snore escaped he did not wake. Silently she prayed as the iron fitted into her hand. Turning the handle her prayers were answered, the hinge was well oiled and did not creak. She slipped from one room to the next like a shadow.

She took in the circular room; stone stairs spiralled upwards, huge oak doors stifled the sound of music and laughter, torches crackled and spat in their brackets. Taking the stairs she picked up her pace, every scruff of her boots tingled adrenaline up her spine. When she reached the second floor she realised she'd not been breathing. Come now Leliana, it has not been so long since you acted the spy. Rule number one, don't panic. With calmer eyes she looked around. The second floor had doors and more stairs. She guessed at a man like Hernandez preferring to be higher than his underlings. Stairs flew under her.

Another door blocked her from her flight. Pressing her ear to the wood she heard nothing. Slowly she gripped the handle, soundlessly it slid downwards, selfishly it did not open. Restless hands found the folded piece of velvet of her lock picks. Rule number two, always be prepared. She listened carefully to the rise and fall of the pins within the lock. Soon enough a satisfying click brought a smile to her face. This time it opened.

She pressed herself against the other side of the door. Total darkness. Patiently she waited for her eyes to adapt to the moonlight, levelling her breathing. In time shapes sprang from the blackness, the looming four poster bed, the jutting mantelpiece, the desk scattered with papers. Instinct took over and she went to the desk. She turned each parchment to the moonlight, too wary to light a candle. She slid a document into her pocket, a legal paper written in such a tight hand that she could make no sense of it. Everything else seemed in place; requests to join the Grey, bills of sale, scouting reports. Even when she opened the drawers she found them full of junk, odds and ends that had been hastily hidden. She cast her eyes around again and flew to the chest. She'd got out her picks when she heard the scuff of a boot on the stairs. Rule number three, don't run. Fighting every urge in her body she sat on the bed, her hands clasped the thick blankets, her feet twitched over the floorboards. The door burst open, the brightness of the torch blinded her for an instant.

"Who...who are you?"

He was not Hugo Hernadez, nothing about his character would tie him to that name, not the trembling greatsword he wielded, nor downy fluff on his upper lip.

"Do you make a habit of bursting into your Commander's personal quarters?" she breathed, enlacing her words with breathy seduction. Rule number four, don't show fear.

"I...umm... no milady," his polished armour gleamed in the torch light, clanking together as he shook. When she rose he pointed the blade towards her throat. She walked closer to him, pressing the steel against the groove of her neck.

"My, what a big sword you have," she bit her lip. He shuffled backwards and the coolness left her throat.

"What are you doing here?"

"I'm here to see Hugo," she whispered, slinking between the blade and fire close enough that his weapon was useless. "But he's not here is he?" she purred running her finger over the griffin on his armour.

"No..no...milady," he lowered the sword completely now and she smiled demurely up at him.

"We had... let us say...an appointment," she dripped meaning into the word. The boy blushed furiously.

"I...erm...yes well, he's not here I'm afraid," he stammered.

"No," she had to stand on tiptoes to get close enough to whisper in his ear, he shuddered. "He's not," her fingers stroked against his strong jaw line. "Perhaps you could tell me where he went? Such a strong and able recruit as yourself would surely know, and I'm sure your Master would appreciate my presence as much as you." She delicately pressed her hips against straining fabric. He dropped his sword.

"Maker," he scrambled for the blade, sheathing it when he grasped the hilt. She stood demurely, batting her lashes. "He had... some business, outside of the city..." he fumbled.

"Where, sweet thing?"

"He was going to the deep roads, t..t..to take some new recruits to meet the darkspawn."

"Poor recruits," she smiled and he laughed nervously. "Where's the nearest entrance to the deep roads?"

"Dragon's End, a tower west of the city, any good map will mark it."

"Thank you, my dear," she drifted towards him again, brushing her lips against his cheek before he could stop her. "I'm sure Hugo will appreciate this."

She was gone before he could react, no longer caring for the noise she made or the drunken Wardens in the Great Hall. She entered the way she came; the cook still deeply asleep, the window still propped open. Adrenaline pumped her forwards. She climbed the stone walls of the keep, grazing her palms on the stone. She did not care.

She rushed through the Antivan streets, still bursting with people and song. Even the Pits had become crowded at this hour, all hot wine and whores. She grinned at unfamiliar faces and they slurred grins back. She took the steps to the Nymph's Song two at a time, quiet unaware of the shadow that followed her.