So. You knew this was coming, didn't you? This chapter merits a content warning. So. Content warning: Beware. Singing.
Chapter 36: Bread and Circuses
On a normal day, the alchemical work would absorb Margo's attention, but there is nothing particularly normal about a day where you discover that your body's previous occupant had been taking active steps towards becoming some kind of weaponized courtesan.
Margo moves through the motions of assembling the five formulas Josephine requested, muttering under her breath the whole time. Fortunately, there is no one to hear her — Adan hightailed it out of the shop the second she was back with her new assignment. The apothecary has the ingredients for everything but the hair removal paste — they are missing an appropriate base for the poultice, which requires the subcutaneous back fat of a creature called a snoufleur . Margo wonders what the beast looks like. The image that her mind conjures is a snuffling cauliflower.
She feels only a vague twinge of guilt at appropriating a small portion of the concoctions — at least in the case of the deodorant, she figures that appropriation can be interpreted as a common good. Margo stares at the abortive with vague unease. She doesn't know much about elven biology, but she has not gotten her period — and it has been over a month. She swallows back a sudden lump in her throat. Ah, fuck, when did Maile have her little escapade with that Tevinter mage, exactly? Surely she couldn't be pregnant . Surely Maile would have been careful. Oh Maile, you poor, stupid girl . What sort of shit life do elves have around here that fucking, killing, and singing her way through the social hierarchy seemed to her like the best possible option? Void in a sack.
Margo lifts her shirt and stares at her stomach. It's flat, all lean muscles and old, healed injuries. The horizontal scar has gone from pink to white. It is possible that elves have different cycles. Or that she can't get pregnant. She releases her shirt and lets her face drop into her hands. Right. No hand-wringing. It's not like she can run over to a local pharmacy and get a home pregnancy kit. She needs to find a healer — preferably the Theodosian version of a midwife — get herself looked at, and go from there. Agonizing over this now will do her no good.
Margo stacks the physics into the designated crate after labeling them, adds a request for snoufleur fat, pulls on her coat, and wanders outside into the brisk Haven afternoon. Before fleeing Torquemada's enchanting company, she had been ordered to report to Bull, since he was designated lead on their little operation. But in the complex choreography of the Inquisition leadership's political maneuvering, they have been given two days to rest and prepare. Bull can wait. She isn't sure she is quite ready to face him. After all, he's known about Maile's bardic aspirations the entire time — Torquemada was certainly not idly seeding the idea that the Qunari had been sitting on the letter like a particularly malevolent chicken, incubating it until the time it became politically expedient for him to reveal it.
Her legs carry her past Solas's hut, and she hesitates for only a moment before marching on, precisely because the impulse to knock on his door is so strong her hands are practically aching with it. Men. Buses. Elves. No running.
The decision to seek out Varric isn't really one in the strict sense of the term. It is more that she finds herself walking towards his tent with all the intentionality of a mindless automaton suddenly freed from its habitual rails and set to roam the countryside. She finds him out front, chatting with a Chantry sister who is clasping a book to her unmistakably heaving bosom and practically bouncing up and down in the slushy snow. Varric looks somewhat flattered, but wary.
"Varric?" Margo calls out, to give everyone enough time to adjust.
"Prickly!" If she didn't know any better, she would think that Varric is distinctly relieved by her arrival. "You're just in time. Thanks for stopping by."
Margo frowns briefly, and then forces her lips into a smile. Apparently the dwarf is adopting the time-tested strategy of extracting oneself from an awkward social situation by simulating a pre-existing appointment.
"I should probably go," the sister volunteers tentatively.
"Sure, Sister. I'll catch you later."
The woman walks away with a brief glance at Margo.
"Admirer?" Margo asks.
Varric shakes his head and groans. "Worse, Prickly. An aspiring auteur. Wants me to introduce her to my editor."
Margo grins, this time in earnest. "What does she write?"
Varric just shrugs. "What they all write. It's all a variation on the same damn theme. Templar falls in love with a mage. Mage falls in love with a Templar. They are misunderstood and persecuted. They cannot be together, because plot. When they finally are, lots of florid details about the size and shape of his manhood and where it gets inserted. Worst part? This shit actually sells."
Margo pats Varric on the shoulder and clucks sympathetically. "Not everyone can write a Tethras. Be generous."
"True enough. And speaking of thickening plot, I have a few things I've been meaning to run by you. And I figured you might want to chat, too, what with your new assignment. Bard, heh?" Varric's amber eyes settle on her, and Margo notices, not for the first time, that the dwarf's gaze is nothing if not shrewd.
"I would love a chat, Varric."
He nods. "Step into my office." He gestures ironically at his tent.
Margo isn't sure why she didn't expect the books. Perhaps it isn't the books, exactly, but rather their sheer volume and diversity. Over the last month, Varric has somehow managed to assemble a small but incredibly well-stocked library. Not just his novels, either — everything from history to theology to philosophy. Art. Plays. Political pamphlets. Poetry. Margo whistles, taking in the wealth of literature.
"Varric, I know we've only known each other for a short time, but can I move in with you?"
He chuckles. "I'd suggest you start with buying me dinner."
"Dinner, drinks, a pet nug — whatever will get me into your library," Margo trails, still captivated by all the spines. He even has an entire shelf dedicated solely to alchemy and botany.
This time, the dwarf's laugh is full-throated and surprisingly unguarded. Margo looks at him with a grin. His mirth is infectious. "I know how this goes, Prickly. You only want me for my books."
"And your scintillating company," she retorts, turning back to the shelves. Oooh, a omnibus on the lyrium trade!
"I'm flattered, I truly am. But I prefer my roommates a bit more… ahh… substantial."
"Ah, I see. A stout dwarven woman, perhaps?"
He chortles. "Not necessarily dwarven. Besides, I'm pretty sure your attention isn't exactly on yours truly, much as it breaks my heart. And I really don't relish the idea of being 'accidentally' struck with a lightning bolt in our next fight. Anyway, speaking of stout, what in the Void is happening to you? I know you do eat, but…"
Margo frowns. Is it that bad? Her clothes do seem to fit a little more loosely lately, but nothing quite so dramatic — at least, nothing that should warrant two comments about her weight in one day.
"A growth spurt," she parries, still keeping the smile on her face, even if she doesn't feel it.
"Spoken to Chuckles about it? You might have a worm. Seen it plenty in Kirkwall, especially in Lowtown."
She shakes her head. A worm, perhaps not. But a parasite of the cosmic variety? Dear Unspecified Deity's Nether Regions, is there a physical component to Imshael's attention beyond vomiting blood? Oh well, under the rug it goes.
"Back to books. Can I borrow something?"
Varric narrows his eyes at her. "Sure, Prickly. What would you like?"
Margo considers her most immediate needs. "Something on the political history of Thedas."
Varric gives her another one of his quizzical looks, turns to the bookshelf, and extracts a huge doorstopper of a tome. "How about a Genitivi? The upside with this one is that you probably could use it as blunt-force instrument in a pinch. Oh. And while I like you, Prickly, if you scribble on it, you'll lose your borrowing privileges."
"Understood." Margo receives the book with barely contained greed and tucks it away into her pack. He gestures for her to sit, and she lowers herself to the chair he indicates. He plops down opposite her with a sigh.
"So. The Herald."
Margo nods. They are down to business — in other words, Evie. She had no doubt whatsoever that this was what Varric had been meaning to talk to her about. Evie and the seemingly improved luck siphon. And yet, she cannot help but wonder why he has decided to approach her of all people — and not, say, Cassandra. Or Solas, for that matter.
"It seems that it has gotten better," Margo ventures cautiously.
Varric nods thoughtfully. "It has. Not completely — I still got misfires — but the fights weren't slapstick-awful. So let's file that away as a win. See, Prickly, that's not the problem."
Margo frowns. "What's the problem then?"
The dwarf's eyes narrow. "You haven't spoken to Chuckles about it, have you?"
She shakes her head. "He hasn't mentioned anything other than the improvement."
"You two had a falling out?"
Margo keeps her face neutral at first, but then the air rushes out of her. She slumps a little. "Not exactly. To be fair, Varric, I don't believe there was ever anything to fall out of." It's a creative bending of the truth, at least as far as her own emotional climate is concerned, and she has no doubt that Varric knows this perfectly well.
The dwarf chortles, but the sound bears only a passing resemblance to genuine amusement. And then his expression turns serious, and perhaps slightly sad. Margo has the sneaking suspicion that this is an affective undercurrent that his habitual sarcastic mask is designed to conceal. "Ah. Well, shit. No wonder he seemed a bit distracted lately. I suppose I can't blame him for not noticing."
A very unpleasant chill creeps down Margo's spine. "Varric, out with it. What's going on?"
The dwarf sighs, and props his elbows on his knees, gaze at the floor. "Have you taken a good look at Ca—… the Seeker lately?"
Margo blinks. She and Cassandra haven't really interacted much beyond the simple formalities of camp life and traveling together. Margo tries to summon a recent memory of the warrior woman. She seemed… tired, perhaps, but all of them were road-worn by the time they got back to Haven.
"What have you noticed, Varric?"
"It's killing her," the dwarf says simply. "Whatever ability she uses to knock out Evie's curse, or whatever that thing is, it's leeching something. Not sure if it's because the Seekers don't use lyrium like the Templars do, so their little suppression trick has to come from elsewhere, or if it's something about Evie's blighted luck siphon, but by the time we made it to the Templar base camp, she was barely walking. That's why Hero took so much damage. He was making sure he drew all the attention." Varric sighs. "Hero's not stupid. He notices these things."
Margo digests this. Of course. Why didn't she think that there would be a cost? Magic, of whatever persuasion, does not manifest ex nihilo — this much has been obvious from the mages' reliance on lyrium potions to sustain their casting in battle. Or from the Templars' use of the stuff, for that matter. Why was she operating under the assumption that similar principles did not apply to Cassandra's abilities to suppress magic?
"So, the solution isn't sustainable," Margo concludes. She meets Varric's gaze, noticing the worry creases that bracket his mouth. He averts his eyes and stares at the floor like it's about to reveal the secret to the universe. "You're worried about Cassandra, but if we bring others into it — namely, the Templars, the only other ones able to suppress magic — this exposes Evie. And makes the whole situation a political…ah... gaatlok keg, waiting to blow." Margo's voice is gentle, almost conciliatory, because at that moment Varric looks so damn vulnerable she just wants to throw her arms around the sarcastic bastard and lie through her teeth that it'll all be fine in the end. Since she isn't about to insult his intelligence, Margo leans forward instead and gives his forearm a brief squeeze.
"Damn it, Prickly. The Seeker is never going to admit weakness — she'll run herself into the ground instead. And while she and I haven't exactly gotten along, she can be reasoned with. She's got a soft streak deep down beneath all that steel and duty. Which is more than I can say about some of the other Inquisition founders."
"So this is all just worry about the balance of power?" Margo asks. Oh, look — another bridge for sale!
Varric makes a face. "Yeah, yeah, don't gloat. If you breathe any of this to her, I will write you into a romance with Seggrit in my next book."
Margo makes a suitably horrified face, but she's quietly glad that Varric seems to be regaining his balance. That vulnerable look sits on him askance. "So we need a new solution," she states with confidence she doesn't feel.
"Yep." Varric looks up from the floor and leans back in his chair. "That we do." He smothers the worry under another layer of quiet irony, his gaze turning wry once again. "All right. Enough wallowing. At least if there is any trouble with recruiting the Templars, Evie can just run up and hug them all. They won't know what hit them. Now. Drinks?"
"Varric, wait. I want to ask for your advice."
He offers her a slightly crooked smile. "Worst vice is advice, but I'm always happy to make a suggestion."
Margo exhales. How does she handle this? "I know nothing about being a bard. And what I might have known at one point, I do not remember."
"Memory still faulty?" Varric asks with a little twinkle in his eye.
Margo just shrugs. "Still faulty. Nor do I entirely trust Leliana's sudden enthusiastic endorsement. It feels like… she's trying to stage something."
"All right. Run that conversation by me."
She does. After Margo is finished, Varric nods slowly. He scrapes the palm of his hand against the stubble on his chin in what is probably his 'I'm thinking' gesture. "From a tactical perspective, it's a win-win for the spymaster. She would've sent someone to check out Redcliffe regardless. I'm pretty sure the decision to help the Templars was a done deal the second the Seeker and Curly united on the issue. Ruffles might have been on the fence, but that's diplomacy for you — you hedge your bets and don't speak too directly."
"Does Evie's voice not carry weight?"
The dwarf bobbles his head from side to side, the movement neither affirmative nor negative. "Look, Prickly. Here's what you need to know. When you get right down to it, the Inquisition boils down to Justinia's two Hands. Everyone else is auxilliary."
Right. Divine Justinia — the cleric who got blown up in the Chantry — and her two advisors. So, Cassandra and Torquemada.
"All right. I get that." Margo sighs. "But why send me ?"
"At a guess? Because you're an unknown variable, and the Nightingale doesn't like unknown variables. Trust me on that — I've been on the wrong end of her attention, too. On the wrong end of both Hands, as a matter of fact. Not a comfortable place to be." He sighs and rubs his wrist absentmindedly. "But it's not just about you. Have you noticed who else is going?"
Margo checks off the candidates. The Iron Bull — a self-confessed Qunari operative. Solas, an apostate elven mage. And Dorian.
"She's sending all the wild cards out," Margo finally concludes.
"If you make it back with interesting information, great. And if you don't make it back..." Varric shrugs.
Margo pinches the bridge of her nose and squeezes her eyes shut. The logic is suspiciously reminiscent of how the religiously minded folks of Salem determined whether someone was a witch. Toss the witch in the water: if she drowns, she was innocent. Win-win indeed.
"What of this strange decision to send us as minstrels?" Margo shakes her head. "Is she… taking the piss?"
Varric chortles. "You know what, Prickly, the less I think about what the Nightingale might find humorous, the better I sleep at night. But if you're going to play the role, here's a suggestion. Trust me, I'm a storyteller. Not that different from a bard, if you think about it." He leans in conspiratorially. "The single most important thing to do is to gauge your audience. Everything else?" He waves his hand dismissively. "Small change."
And with that, Varric gets up from his chair and stretches. "But if you want some pointers, I happen to have a friend who might be able to help."
About half an hour later, they are ensconced in the tavern with mugs of ale in front of them. The new addition to their duo — a tall, freckled woman with cheekbones you could cut yourself on and a very complex updo — straddles the bench next to Margo. The woman, who introduces herself as Maryden, thrusts an oversized string instrument that looks like a banjo on growth hormones into Margo's arms. It has four bass strings, spaced too wide for human fingers — let alone elven ones — and Margo just shrugs and hands it back with a sinking feeling. Fucking Maile. Fucking Torquemada. And fucking Ben-Hassrath with his fucking intercepted correspondence.
"I don't believe I could play this." This is completely and utterly out of her league. The last time Margo held a guitar, Jake had snatched it from her and asked her not to torture the poor thing. She might know her basic chords, and, back in the day, could sing at least a tiny part of Jake's repertoire herself — but her brother was so above and beyond where she would ever be that it seemed like a pointless waste of time to get too much into it. In the universe's allocation of predilections and skills, her brother had gotten all the musical genius in the family, and this had suited her just fine.
"If you prefer a simpler style, I have an old gittern I rarely use these days," Maryden offers, with an expression so skeptical that it becomes abundantly clear to Margo that the only reason the minstrel is wasting her time at all is as a personal favor to Varric. Margo's face must be sufficiently crestfallen that the woman takes pity on her. "Sometimes it matters little what you play, but that your music comes from a truthful place." She gets up and walks away towards the tavern's back room.
As if all of this weren't mortifying enough, the front door opens, and Bull stomps in, Chargers in tow. He makes a beeline for their table. Krem and the other mercs settle at a different spot, which leads Margo to conclude that Bull is about to join Varric and her to talk shop, rather than simply socialize.
"Varric. Blondie. You're already here."
Varric cocks an eyebrow at the Qunari. "Really, Tiny? 'Blondie?' The point of a nickname is that it's distinctive . Otherwise why bother? You're just going to confuse yourself."
Bull shrugs. "I keep them straight just fine. Anyway. We just need Dorian and Solas to show, and we can get to business." He serves himself from their pitcher of ale, finishes half his pint in one draw, and burps dramatically. "Better. Varric, you comin' too?"
Margo shoots a quick look at the dwarf. She would feel infinitely better if he did.
"Nah, Tiny. I'm sticking with the Herald on this one. Take Sera with you."
Bull shakes his head. "Too many elves already. Besides, Sera's great, but she's got a mouth on her. We need to stay innocuous. We can take her up to Redcliffe, but not inside." He turns his attention to Margo. "All right, Blondie. Let's clear the air, yeah? I wasn't sure about you, but so far, you've come through. I've been sitting on that letter — my guys got it off the Vint mage you bedded on the Storm Coast. Took me a bit to put two and two together — you know, same Vint, same gal. I'm guessing he plucked it off you at some point." He leans in, massive forearm muscles rippling under his grayish skin as he folds his hands over the table — a strangely scholarly pose for such a large figure. "You wanna know what happened to him?"
Margo meets the Qunari's eye-patched gaze. "Honestly, Bull? I don't really give a squat." Well, she could be even more specific than that. It would benefit her immensely, as far as her cover is concerned, if the guy were dead. Sorry, Maile, but a witness is a witness. Margo winces internally. When did she get so ruthless?
Bull's chest rumbles with a chuckle. "Loose ends, heh? He's not gonna be your problem anymore. You're welcome."
Margo just nods. What else is there to say?
Maryden saunters back to them with a case in tow. Her eyes glide over Krem at the other table, and she adds a bit of sway to her hips as she makes her way towards them. Krem's expression remains stoic, but the minstrel seems neither offended nor discouraged. She turns to Margo, opens the case, and extracts the instrument that had been concealed inside. It is, by and large, a guitar. It's on the smaller side, with a shorter neck and a slightly different profile to the resonating chamber. The word that Margo's mind conjures from some dusty corner of her memory is "vihuela." Mercifully, it only has six strings. Of course, knowing the correct designation for the instrument isn't going to help her play it.
She takes the instrument awkwardly, and gives the strings a tentative pluck. It is tuned differently, but it's not that far off — she could conceivably re-tune it to a familiar pattern without snapping the catguts.
The next five minutes are utterly painful. Maryden's voice is all honey and perfect pitch, her fingers strumming at her supersized banjo with practiced ease. She tries to teach Margo a few popular songs — they start with something about Andraste's mabari — but it is utterly useless. Margo doesn't have the musical chops to pick up on the chords and transpose them to the vihuela without some kind of annotation — and even if she could, perhaps, reverse engineer it on her own time, she is too damn self-conscious, because at this point, their little group is starting to draw attention. To make matters worse yet, her voice is in a completely different range from what it used to be — it's pitched low, somewhere between an alto and a contralto, with a noticeable rasp that makes singing anything feminine an entirely absurd enterprise. She can carry a tune at least, but the upbeat, crowd-pleasing ballads Maryden suggests to her come out a bit demented.
"I am nowhere near drunk enough for this," Margo groans.
"Blondie, I know you're no bard, that much is clear. Fucking some high-up Orlesian doesn't mean you can sing in a tavern. Different skillsets. Look, don't overthink it. We just need to pass long enough to get into that mage shithole without getting caught and have a backup in case someone calls out the bluff."
Margo exhales, somewhere between relief and irritation. True. They just need to look the part.
She is about to set the guitar back into the case when the door opens to let in Dorian, with Blackwall and Sera closely on the mage's heels. The three seem to be in a heated and not altogether friendly debate over something. They all sport identical expressions of barely contained irritation. Dorian is the only one who seems vaguely amused. Bull gestures them over, and their table suddenly becomes crowded.
Blackwall plops himself down next to Margo, with the sound of creaking leather and clanking metal. The bench under them sags noticeably. "I didn't know you played," he says with a quick glance at the guitar, pale green eyes crinkling at the corners.
"I don't really," Margo retorts dryly. "Not well, at least. But I suppose I better pick it up, and fast."
"Ugh. How hard can it be?" Sera goes through her pockets and extracts a handful of coppers. "You just need more booze. Whatcha having, Beardy?"
"Not the same piss you bought me last time. Pretty much anything but that." Blackwall places a few coins in Sera's outstretched palm. "On me."
Dorian hovers for a few seconds before taking a seat next to Bull. "Do make some room, Qunari. And move your legs. How you manage to take up half of this bench is entirely beyond me."
The Qunari smirks. "There's room in my lap if you're feeling crowded, Dorian."
" Vishante kaffas , half of Haven has been in your lap. It is the definition of crowded. I think I'll pass."
"Suit yourself." Bull leans back, in a pose that signals he is the one presiding over the proceedings. "All right. Who are we missing? Solas?"
Sera, who is bustling back with a tray full of drinks, bread, and some grayish substance that might be cheese, although it could also be clay, makes a face. "Don't hold your breath, big guy. That one's too good to socialize with the rest of us little people. Like you'd see him in a tavern. Bleagh!"
Of course, this is the exact moment when the door opens, and in walks the aforementioned elf. In principle, and on a better day, Margo would be thoroughly amused by the impeccable comedic timing. As it stands, she is too busy trying to negotiate holding the accursed string instrument and receiving, from a very business-minded Blackwall, who has taken it upon himself to distribute the drinks Sera brought, a shot of something that looks like it should spontaneously combust upon contact with the air.
"Bottoms up," Bull orders. And, of course, the entire gallery takes the shot. Margo's eyes meet Dorian's, who cocks an eyebrow and offers a half-shrug. "Barbarian customs," he mouths at her. Margo grins, and knocks back the liquor. At this point, she is happy to reclassify the booze as a palliative.
She watches Solas glide over to their table. The elf hesitates for a few seconds, scanning the available seating. Maryden has left their company to speak with Krem, but the spot she vacated is quickly occupied by Sera, and Solas selects the opposite side, taking a seat next to Dorian at the very edge of the bench. Margo darts him a look, and is greeted by a small bow.
"Good evening," he offers, to no one in particular. "Iron Bull, you asked us to see you."
"Yeah." The Qunari glances at the new addition to their group over Dorian's head. "We'll talk strategy in a minute. But so long as I'm the one in charge of our side of the operation, I like to get to know the people I'm working with."
"You have fought alongside us for some time, Iron Bull," Solas comments, his tone mild. "Is that insufficient?"
The Qunari's expression is amused. "Have a drink, Solas. Unwind a bit."
Margo exhales. This should all feel like relaxed, easy camaraderie, and yet, it does not. There are the clear animosities — it doesn't take any particular brilliance to realize Sera and Solas do not like each other, for example. But aside from the obvious, Margo cannot shake the feeling that half of the people assembled here are sizing each other up through careful, calculated moves and countermoves. And if that weren't complicated enough, there are the emerging entanglements, emotional or otherwise. She watches across the table as Bull reaches for the flagon of beer, "accidentally" brushing his bare forearm against Dorian's shoulder. Never mind that this took quite the gestural detour. Across from her, Varric's head moves infinitesimally every time the tavern door opens, as if he is expecting someone. And Margo herself is carefully avoiding looking anywhere beyond Dorian's left ear.
She is brought out of her uneasy reverie when Varric pushes another shot in her direction. Both Dorian and Solas have availed themselves of glasses of wine. Margo trades the shot for a mug of ale.
"So." Blackwall turns to her, and taps the guitar with a callused finger. "One song."
"Blackwall's right, Blondie. Better be able to fake it."
"I wanna hear a song, too," Sera quips. "Just no elfy shite, yah?"
Screw it. The minstrel is out of earshot, clearly occupied with Krem. Margo takes a long swig of her ale and turns to the instrument. She adjusts the vihuela to a standard guitar tuning. What does she remember? More relevantly, what does she remember that doesn't mention some inconvenient otherworldly things — and that she can actually sing.
"What sort of song are you in the mood for?" she asks the table, mostly to buy herself time. She strums an A7. It sounds like an A7, so there's that, at least.
"Something with soul!" That, of course, is Bull, with a growl on the last word, as he knocks back another shot from a somewhat murky glass.
"How about lurrrvve? Maybe about certain pretty Antivan ambassadors and their clever tongues?" Sera leans forward and flicks her tongue suggestively at Blackwall. The poor man colors under his beard. "That's not appropriate, Sera." He throws a bread crust at the elven archer, which might have flown true if Sera hadn't intercept it in mid-flight and stuffed it into her mouth. "Anyway. Lurv," she says, chewing.
"Any other specifications?"
"Honestly, Prickly, I'd like something optimistic for once."
She looks at Varric, and catches an infinitesimal nod towards the rest of the room. Right. Gauge your audience. Margo tries to think, despite the roaring performance anxiety. On the upside, at this point she is tipsy enough that if she doesn't look at any of them, she can almost fashion the illusion of solitude. Something optimistic, but with soul. A love song would probably go over well, since those tend to be not particularly specific, but she isn't feeling it. Nor do they tend to be optimistic.
She strums a G. Well, no time like the present.
"Come gather 'round people
Wherever you roam... "
Her voice is more Cohen that Dylan, but she hits the right notes, at least, and after some fumbling, her fingers find the frets easily enough. She shuts everything out except for the memory of her brother singing on her couch, somewhere between one bad break up and the next.
"... And don't speak too soon.
For the wheel's still in spin.
And there's no tellin' who that it's namin'.
For the loser now will be later to win…"
And it might be the booze, but midway through the song, Margo decides that, while she'll never sing opera, Maile's voice is, in fact, interesting in its own way. She can carry a tune. There's a slightly wistful quality to the raspy contralto, without being full-on maudlin. With the right repertoire, this can be serviceable. And her fingers, while rusty and tentative at first, benefit from Maile's sharper reflexes. But most importantly, she suddenly understands Varric's comment about the importance of reading the audience. Because, in the end, it's the song's message that seems to hit a chord with the assembled company. She changes a couple of verses on the fly.
"Come nobles and counselors, please heed the call …
Don't stand in the doorway, don't block up the hall.
For he that gets hurt will be he who has stalled.
There's a battle outside and it's ragin'... "
By the end of the second verse, she gets a few approving cheers from not just the table, but the other patrons. And by the third, there are at least three voices that pick up the chorus. She recognizes Sera's: it's a tad off key, but what it lacks in tune it more than makes up in volume and enthusiasm. Blackwall's next to her is a deep bass. Varric's is more of a quiet hum.
" For the times they are a-changin'. "
Margo wishes Evie were around. In a sense, the song feels like it should be addressed to her. However tenuous their recent victories, they are something to celebrate.
She finishes abruptly, without any musical flourish to ease off, and looks up. Dorian grins, and starts clapping demonstratively, and then the rest of her table joins in. There are even a few approving whistles from the audience. Blackwall smiles from under his beard, puts his hand on her shoulder, and gives it a friendly squeeze.
Margo glances at Varric, and gives him a grateful nod. "Who's it by?" he asks, eyes glinting with keen interest. "Never heard that one before."
"Who gives a shite, Varric? Proper people song, that."
Margo busies herself with her ale to wash down the nervousness, and buy herself some time to respond. "My brother used to sing it," she says finally, hoping the evasion will be enough. "That's how I learned it." All other things being equal, always better to lie by saying the truth.
She looks up again, and notices Dorian's and Solas's gazes on her. Dorian's eyes twinkle with curiosity, and his Dali-esque mustache twitches in suppressed amusement. She casts a quick glance at Solas. His expression is harder to read — he keeps his face neutral but holds her gaze for a little too long, some kind of complicated question there that Margo isn't sure she can answer.
"You know what, Blondie?" Bull pours himself another ale. "We just might pass."
This chapter was brought to you by snoufleur fat. Because if you can use fade-touched snoufleur skin, the fat should be put to good use as well.
Next up: Off to Redcliffe
Also, many thanks for those of you who leave reviews and comments. Even if I cannot respond to guest post, please know that I appreciate them enormously. Buckle in, folks. We're in for a stretch of drama. But the next one or two chapters are relatively speaking fluffy.