Aveline had warned Hawke that things were going to get worse before they got better - if they ever got better at this point. When he had first seen her letter he had thought that she meant to further question him about the incident at the docks, but if such a thing mattered to her at all anymore it did not show in her correspondence. Apparently Meredith had finally lost any semblance of patience and he could understand why. The Knight-Commander was many things, but stupid was not one of them. She knew Horacious was in the city, she knew precisely why Horacious was there, and though she may have genuinely yearned to find Ser Josain's killer it was obvious that the matter needed to be resolved quickly or who knew what an Elikdos of the Equs would resort to.

After the incident with the Nautilus, Hawke wasn't sure precisely how Horacious would handle the matter. Was he truly so bold as to send Titus into the Circle and mount her head on a pike as though she were a common slave from times long past? What did Meredith really think happened? Anders had created a convincing situation and Josain's sword being found in his clinic seemed to add to the idea that a Mage had murdered Josain and made off with the money, further adding to the Templar paranoia that was reeking through Kirkwall.

Hawke thought of Bethany then, as he marched through the moonlit streets, pulling his cloak tighter. He had not seen his sister in more than passing in almost two years now and her letters had stopped coming entirely. Was Meredith putting her to the rack as she threatened to do with Anders? Did Bethany even know? What did any Mage of the Circle know? He tried to imagine life inside the confines of a Circle, the first threat in Thedas as far as the Chantry was concerned, but the last to receive any kind of information.

As the Champion of Kirkwall, Hawke had had the privilege of meeting the Circle's First Enchanter, an Elf by the name of Orsino. He had tried to distinguish himself during the confrontation with the Qunari, desperate to prove that the Mages were on the side of the city, whatever Meredith may have thought. But there was a timidity to the man that Hawke did not necessarily feel was unjustified. An Elf and a mage, he thought, the Maker was a cruel, cantankerous bastard to create such a duo. What was he doing now, Hawke wondered. What did he know? What was he telling his Circle? It did not instill confidence in Hawke to think that he was the only shield between Meredith and Bethany.

Templars were now posted at every corner, with only a handful of guards morosely walking the streets, reluctantly bowing their heads to the knights that were looking all the parts of occupiers. Hawke felt uneasy, as though he now reeked with the stench of Anders. He was too close it all. Even his title of Champion did not seem to be enough, feeling as though every Templar stared down at him, seeing right through him, exposing every secret.

Without even realizing it Hawke's feet had led him to Horacious's mansion. In the dark of night, burdened with the knowledge of Ser Josain's secrets, the billowing banner of a horse seemed all that more frightening and intimidating. With each shudder of the fabric it hissed a knowledge of what was to come, and though Hawke could not guess as to Horacious's next move he could not help but feel that it was going to dwarf the massacre of the Nautilus. With a deep and heavy sigh, Hawke stepped forward and slammed the gargoyle knocker once more.

Once again the door swung open to reveal the bald headed slave that Hawke had come to identify as Cicero. Rather than a cordial greeting, however, Cicero was all business, marked by a tepid glare. "This is good," he said, "the Master was just about to send me for you."

Hawke narrowed his eyes but did not bother to acknowledge the tiny man, instead pushing past and not bothering to consider the door that was shut behind him. He started his march through the mansion, stopped only when Cicero called to his master.

In the antechamber, Horacious was stepping down a flight of stairs, a cane aiding his descent.

"The Champion," Horacious observed, his normal jovial demeanor sapped and replaced with a grim determination. "We have...much to discuss, yes?" Hawke wasn't so sure about the idea of "much", but he offered a nod all the same. When Horacious reached the bottom of the stares he smashed the cane into the ground and placed both hands atop it, then leaned into it. "We enter the end game, I think."

"Those heads on the docks," Hawke accused, more forcefully than intended, but Horacious clearly took his meaning. He bowed his head in a long nod.

"That was Titus's doing, yes," Horacious explained. "I am a man of my word. They wronged the friend of my friend and for this they lost their heads."

"You are not my friend," Hawke insisted, finding a hint of perhaps misplaced confidence.

"No," Horacious barked back with more force than Hawke knew the fat man could conjure. "You should not cast this aside, yes?" He leaned back and lifted his cane, waving it in a circle. "This entire city, it was better when Tevinter. You do not approve of slavery, yes? But we were not so weak. These Templars..." his face was grim and with the aggressive determination Hawke almost did not notice the morbid amount of skin that clung to him. "These Templars are fools. I spit on them. They know nothing. But perhaps we knew this, yes? Why else would the Equs have sent me."

It was the first acknowledgment that Hawke remembered that the man had been sent by higher powers. He also realized then that this was also the first time that he had not seen the golem Titus standing behind Horacious.

"Where is Titus?" Hawke asked suddenly, worried.

Horacious drove his cane into the marble floor. "Titus is fulfilling obligations." The words carried a burning ember with them that set Hawke on edge. "You visited the grave, yes?"

The question put Hawke on an edge beyond what he had thought possible. How did he know these things?

"You're not interested in the justice of Ser Josain's death," Hawke accused, stepping forward, "you don't give two shits about the man."

At first Horacious was silent, eyeing the Champion, then after several moments offered a long bow of his head. "Just so," he agreed. "Ser Josain means nothing to me as a man. I see many men die. Two of mine died coming to this city. It means nothing. But what Ser Josain carried-,"

"The lottery."

"Just so," Horacious agreed again.

"Who did Meredith borrow it from? The Archon? Is that why you're here?"

For the first time since he had arrived Horacious looked the part of his old self, letting out a boisterious laugh and beginning to pace. "The Archon?" he mused, as though the words themselves were a key to a great joke. "His Majesty should be so upset over three thousand sovereigns, I think not! No, nothing so dramatic. These Templars have borrowed the money from the Equs, and I mean to insure that we receive our debt."

"And what if she fails? What if you can't get the money back?"

Horacious heaved his shoulders in a long shrug. "Then perhaps I will take her head, yes?"

Hawke frowned. "I thought you said you were a loyal, pious member of the Chantry."

"The Imperial Chantry," Horacious roared, beating his cane against the ground. "My Chantry. You would call it the Black Chantry, yes? It does not matter, she means nothing to me. No man or woman of the Imperial Chantry would so foolishly steal from the Equs. But you need not worry this. I do not believe I have need to take your Knight-Commander's head. Not today at least, yes?"

Hawke was at a loss, his mind was beginning to spin. "Who killed Josain?" he asked, as though the answer to that simple question would be enough.

"Agents," Horacious explained calmly, "their names mean little. You think I would kill these men? They are urchins. They mean little to I, yes? I would not have Titus sully his blade with them. They will die in days, weeks, maybe months. In Ferelden, no one hangs the Mabari with the master. It is the man who holds the leash.. Champion, my friend. I ask that you do not worry. All will be set aright."

"You know that my sister is in the Circle," Hawke finally said, clenching his fists. "You know everything, so I imagine you know that."

"Just so," Horacious said with a nod.

"Then you must know that if Meredith doesn't get the money back...or if you harm her...she's liable to turn on the mages in the Circle. My sister among them."

"I have called you my friend, yes?" Horacious explained, cracking the cane against the ground again. "I have defended the dog of Denarius, why do you not trust me now?"

It was the final straw, Hawke felt a snap as he saw red pulsing at the edges of his vision. "Because you're a fat selfish bastard with a golem at your beck and call that will kill anyone that crosses you."

Rather than appear insulted, as Hawke might have guessed, Horacious only beamed a thick ivory smile. "Just so," he explained happily. "But I cherish those I call friend, yes? You worry too much. Tomorrow this will end, I promise you. If you are not happy with the end..." Horacious shrugged, "come, kill me, or try to. This is the way Ferelden handles things, yes? Then it is so. But I shall see this ended and then I shall make my leave on the tide. We are finished here."

"Why are you so certain I am your friend?" Hawke asked bitterly, finding himself rising in disgust as Horacious turned his back to him.

The fat Tevinter did not bother to regard the Champion as he climbed the stair, a careful, unsteady step with each one, guided by his cane. "Because my dear Champion," he explained, "we are both good men cast into positions we do not want." When he reached the top after what seemed to be the greatest labor of the man's life, Horacious finally looked at him, a death fire in his eyes. "And if you try to interfere I will hang that whore you call your lover like the pirate bitch that she is."

Horacious did not allow for the Champion to respond, Cicero accentuating that point by appearing in front of him with a glower that demanded that he leave. But in that moment, with chilled blood coursing through his vains, Tiber Hawke could have strangled the Tevinter through his fat jowls.