Author's note: Thanks to my excellent beta-reader, clafount, for all her help. And thanks to everyone who's read and reviewed!

Bethany had to give Seneschal Bran at least a bit of credit, for he was either courageous or foolhardy enough to greet her arrival with all of the haughty disdain that she recalled from their very first meeting, two years before . She and her brother had rescued the viscount's son, then, and she'd been too timid to stand up to the officious man's sneers. That was before she'd faced ogres and broodmothers and the flesh-borne golems of Amgarrak. Now, Bran's dithering merely grated on her nerves.

"I'm sure an appropriate time could be arranged, Serah Hawke," he informed her, pointedly ignoring her well-armed companions. "If you would but send notice-"

"I don't have time for this," Bethany broke in, taking a single step forward. Barcus was at her heel once more, as attuned to her moods as ever, and he let out a low growl. "Viscount Dumar summoned me personally at my earliest convenience," she reiterated. "If you see fit to turn me away now, I can't guarantee that I'll find another convenient time for weeks."

The seneschal paled, shuffling half a step backward. "Wait here," he finally relented. "I will see if the viscount is available." Bethany inclined her head, slightly ashamed of the pride she took in the other man's fearful acquiescence . He disappeared into the viscount's chambers, only to emerge a few moments later, looking thoroughly chastised. "Viscount Dumar will see you," Bran allowed. "Just you," he clarified, when Isabela, Carver, and Varric all moved to follow Bethany.

Carver looked to protest, but the Warden gave her fraternal twin an apologetic shrug. "I'll tell you everything," she promised her companions, and then she followed the seneschal through the anteroom to Dumar's office. Bran clucked his tongue when the mabari presumed to come along , but he made no other complaints, and he left them at the viscount's office door.

Viscount Marlowe Dumar looked a decade older than when she'd last seen him, so briefly, those two years past. There had been a hint of colour in his razor-thin goatee, then, but now his chin gleamed white in the morning light. "Hawke," he grunted, pushing off from his desk. "It's...good that you've come."

"I only arrived yesterday noon," Bethany offered, feeling slightly awkward beneath the old man's tight smile. "I'm often away."

Dumar nodded once. "Yes, yes...business for the Grey Wardens, I presume." He frowned, likely at the memory of his first meeting with the Commander, the year before. "I need no explanation," he assured her. "I am only grateful that you've come."

The Warden felt relieved, but she crossed her arms nonetheless, hinting at impatience. "And why have I been summoned, messere?"

The viscount turned his back on her, strolling casually to an open window. "I wish I knew," he muttered, just above her hearing. Then, a bit louder, "For three years I've stood between fanatics. At any moment, it seems that passions could spark a conflagration that would end this great city."

Bethany's brow drew down. "You mean...the Qunari?"

"And their antagonists among the Chantry, yes," Dumar replied, turning again to fix the Warden with a pained look. "Kirkwall has tension enough between templar and mage. The last thing we need is a herd of heretical giants taking up permanent residence for Maker knows how long." He shook his head, and Bethany observed that his obsidian circlet weighed heavily upon it. "Balance is maintained because the Qunari ask for nothing. Even the space in Lowtown was a...gift, to contain them."

"Why haven't they left yet?" Bethany wondered. "It's been three years since their shipwreck." Something familiar tickled in her memory, just beyond her grasp, but it was lost before she could get a firm grip on it. The Warden blinked it away.

The viscount grunted a laugh. "Your guess is as good as mine...they say they are waiting for another ship, but they've had ample time to build their own. I've even offered the resources and workmen to see it done for them, but their leader has declined every overture."

The Warden swallowed. "The Arishok," she supplied, shuddering at the recollection of her one and only meeting with the Qunari leader. An over-eager dwarf had roped them into running an errand for the Arishok, against the Arishok's own wishes...and she'd gotten the distinct impression that people did not normally survive contravening the Arishok's wishes.

"Indeed," Dumar affirmed. "And now he has asked for you," the viscount continued. "By name."

A handful of heartbeats passed before the Warden could gather her thoughts. "What does he want with me?"

The older man returned to his desk, smoothing over a sheaf of parchment. "His missive says only that the woman Hawke is required at the compound," Dumar informed her. "This is the only request I've ever received from the man. I have no idea what you shall face, nor how safe it shall be. I only know that Kirkwall will be in your debt for placating him."

Bethany knew that she could refuse, and by the tentative look on Dumar's face, he knew it full well, also. "I do not want a city in my debt," she said, shaking her head. "But," the Warden went on, before the man could mistake her words, "I shall do this thing...and pray that this is the end of it." That last was most likely a lie, since Bethany couldn't remember the last time she'd actually sought Andraste's favour, but it seemed to cheer the viscount nonetheless.

"Please do," he implored her, with a grateful smile.

When he sat at his desk, Bethany understood that she was dismissed, and so she led Barcus back out of the office. The seneschal thanked her for her time rather snidely, but she ignored him, signaling for her companions to follow her out of the Viscount's Keep. Only once they were halfway through the courtyard did she clarify their destination. "The Arishok wants to see me."

"What?!" Carver, Isabela, and Varric all spat more-or-less simultaneously. Isabela overrode the rest, however. "Did he say what he wanted?"

Bethany eyed the pirate a bit warily, unused to the concern in her voice. "No," she admitted. "But the viscount seems to think that my absence will be noted."

"That figures," Carver lamented. "I'm the one who did all the bloody talking to him, but he remembers you ."

The Warden rolled her eyes. "He asked for 'the woman Hawke'," she retorted. "I could always spell you a nice pair of breasts and you could go in my place." She couldn't, really, but the moment's worry in his eyes was more than worth the lie . "Do you all want to come, or not?"

Varric huffed. "Wouldn't miss it for the world, Sunshine," he assured her. She smiled at his now-too-rare use of her old nickname. Carver still groused, but offered a noncommittal shrug.

Isabela stopped short at the bottom of the second flight of stairs, however. "I...just remembered," she ventured. "Got to go shank someone at the Rose." At Bethany's skeptical glance, the pirate threw up her hands. "What? The bastard slapped around one of my girls."

"It's on the way," Bethany observed. "We could help you take care of it."

Isabela shook her head, a lock of hair falling from beneath her crimson bandana. "No," she said, a bit too quickly. "It sounds like you shouldn't wait around on little old me...and besides," she reasoned, "I wouldn't want to get your hands dirty."

The excuse sounded sour on Bethany's ears, but she relented, and did not look back when Isabela disappeared near the Blooming Rose. The splinter in her mind itched once more, but she buried it under the weight of her task . It was a relatively short jaunt into Lowtown, and then to the very top of the docks, where the Qunari kept themselves in a highly-defensible compound.

One of the heretical soldiers stood guard at the closed gate. He was at least eight feet tall, his blue-bronze skin splashed with red ochre beneath sparse armour. "Bas," he grunted, bringing his spear to bear against them. "Give your purpose."

A flutter of fear trembled within the Warden, but she schooled her face. "I am here to see your Arishok," she pronounced. "He sent for me." The guard seemed unimpressed, or perhaps he spoke too little of the King's Tongue to understand. She gave her brother an apologetic glance before sighing. "I am Hawke." She remembered how the men of the Red Iron had called Carver by that name.

But Bethany's suspicions were correct, and her surname got the gate opened for her and her companions. Part of her wished they'd stay behind, for even they wouldn't be able to mount a fighting retreat from the compound if the Qunari were determined to box them in, but the Warden was grateful for their presence nonetheless. The Arishok's throne looked much the same as it had when last she'd stood at the foot of the sandstone steps, flanked by a dozen enormous warriors. The man himself was absent for the moment, but Bethany and her companions didn't have to wait long for him to make his entrance.

Like his subordinates, the Arishok had dove-white hair and purplish skin. Unlike many of the other Qunari, the Arishok's horns were magnificent, swept back from his skull and banded with gold rings inscribed with the runes of his native tongue. He reminded her of nothing so much as an ogre, but when he sat down upon his great chair and regarded them curiously, Bethany stood her ground against her instincts to fight or flee. "Serah Hawke," the Qunari leader intoned in his low timbre, his face registering displeasure. "When last we met, I did not know your name-did not care to," he informed her, casually. "It appears that your fortunes have risen in the intervening years."

The silence lasted for three heartbeats before Bethany realised he was inviting her to respond. "You may say that," she called, up the steps. "I am a Grey Warden; my life is pledged against the darkspawn. Many do not envy my fate."

"Yet you have purpose," the Arishok countered. "Your skills and your magic are wielded for more than your own benefit. Everyone under my command would experience the height of bliss to find themselves in your boots, serah." The man's frown was loud enough to shatter glass . "Our fortunes remain stagnant."

The Warden had no idea how to respond to the Arishok's pronouncement, and she had little desire to remain in his presence a second longer than absolutely necessary. "How can I help you, messere?"

He still looked restive, but the Arishok sat forward, peering at Bethany and her companions over his interlocked fingers. "You will recall a dwarf whose mouth moved more quickly than his feet," he rumbled. "He wished to trade your labours for the formula to create gaatlok."

"Javaris," Bethany mused, recalling the name from some dim corner of her mind. She cast a glance at Varric. "Didn't we kill him ?"

The beardless dwarf arched a brow, obviously scanning his own memories. "No," he answered. "The Arishok up there scared the nug-tickling bastard half to death, though."

Bethany nodded and returned her gaze to the Qunari leader. "Has he been giving you trouble again?"

"The fool's tongue has not yet been excised," the Arishok replied. "You will want to find him, and when you do, I suggest you correct that oversight."

The Warden's lips tipped into a frown. "You aren't giving me much to go on, messere," she pointed out. "What has the dwarf Javaris done to earn your ire?"

A low thrum vibrated from deep within the Arishok's chest. "The short-mouth has stolen what he believes to be the formula for gaatlok," he informed them. "We anticipated this action, and ensured a different alchemical recipe was taken instead. I let you know as a courtesy; what you do with my gift of knowledge is your decision."

Bethany did not move when the Qunari stood, apparently ready to dismiss his audience. "I won't kill someone on your word, serah," she informed him as coolly as she could manage. "If you knew he was coming, why didn't you take care of him yourself?"

The Arishok hesitated in the middle of his turn. "Because," he enunciated deliberately, "the Qun demands us to secure gaatlok, but it does not demand that we protect bas from their own foolishness." His liquid-metal eyes glowed in the dusty light as he cast his gaze down upon her. "The dwarf stole the recipe for saar-qamek," he allowed. "A poison gas-not explosives. The Qunari are inured to its effects...your kind, however, are not ."

That was enough to unsettle the mage, if only slightly. "Why would you substitute one formula for the other?" She wondered aloud. "Just to keep your explosive powder a secret?" She'd heard of Qunari explosives before, but had not been able to put a name to them.

"You speak as though you would hand a broadsword to a child, if it only asked you," the Qunari leader scoffed. "Gaatlok can move mountains...or tear cities asunder. The dwarf knew this; his eyes showed his greed for such power."

Bethany's throat felt parched, but she mounted the first stone step, her stomach churning. "And this other powder," she breathed. "It will kill us, but leave the city intact." A few of the Arishok's retainers stood at greater attention to either side of him, their weapons easily within reach, but their leader merely leaned forward. At least a dozen feet still separated him from the mage, and Bethany was certain she would be dead well before she could bridge that distance, should she be foolish enough to try.

The Arishok regarded her evenly, his dark eyes sparkling in the dusty light. "Any competent alchemist could tell the formula would not explode," he rumbled, dismissively, evidently letting her own comment go unanswered. "But will the dwarf's greed permit him to be cautious? Or, sure of success, will he forge ahead blindly and manufacture enough to threaten a district?"

"But why did you let the thief succeed at all?" The Warden demanded, a cool-burning rage sparking somewhere deep within her chest. "You've been here for three years, now. Nearly a dozen ships could have come and gone to the northern isles in that time."

The implicit accusation caused the Arishok's silver brows to draw in, and with the speed of a waking mammoth, he slowly rose from his austere throne. "No ship is coming for us," he admitted, a sour note in his baritone. "Not until I have fulfilled a demand you cannot understand."

The sight of the man-if such a strange, enormous creature could be properly termed such-sent a frisson of fear trickling down Bethany's spine. But she had faced down ogres, and worse, and she yet breathed. "I am not a tool for you to use as you see fit," the Warden insisted. "Help me understand why you will not leave, and I will deal with your oversight with the alchemical recipe."

The Arishok's eyes closed and the golden rings of his pointed ears quivered as he tilted his head forward, stroking his temples thoughtfully. "Meen-ak ashvaaras saarebas linshek bas saarebas," he mumbled in his own tongue, the syllables lost on Bethany. She knew that saarebas meant mage, and that understanding did little to set her mind at ease . Before she made her decision to beat a retreat with her companions, however, the Qunari leader went on in the King's Tongue. "Filth stole from us," he growled, gracing the Warden with his glance once more. "Not now, not the saar-qamek formula. Years ago." He turned his back upon his audience and paced, clearly agitated. "That is why we remain. That is why we do not simply walk from this pustule of a city. We are denied Par Vollen until I recover what was lost under my command." He rounded again, stalking to the top of the stairs. "Fixing your mess is not the demand of the Qun," he exclaimed. "And you should all be grateful!"

Bethany remained silent throughout the Qunari leader's diatribe, though her heart nestled somewhere in the back of her throat, even as he slumped, almost defeated, into his great chair. The content of his words concerned her even more than his tone, however, and she felt that uneasy pricking in the back of her mind once more . "I will find the dwarf," she vowed, her own voice low. "And I pray that you find what you seek, and leave this place in peace."

"Despite the many provocations your people have offered, you and I are of a kind in that desire," the Arishok intoned. As Bethany turned to leave, however, his low voice went on. "However, the demand of the Qun might more easily be satisfied by sifting through rubble, if my patience is tested much further."

The proclamation stopped the Warden in her boots, its threat too obvious to ignore. She breathed out in a low, sibilant hiss, finally throwing a sharp glance back up at the seated Qunari and his guards. "You may try," she observed. "But if you breach the peace, you may not find us so easily brought to heel." With that, Bethany continued walking, pushing past her brother and Varric in her desire to be elsewhere.

The Viscount's Keep was hardly less busy in the middle of the night than it had been in the early hours of the morning, and nearly as many guards mulled about the entryway and stairs as Bethany remembered from earlier in the day. She limped up the stairs as quickly as her exhausted legs could carry her, followed by Carver, Varric, and Barcus. Isabela loitered behind the rest of them, her presence tugging at the edge of Bethany's awareness. The mage thought the pirate's lagging might be explained by her injuries, but that merely deferred the question, since Isabela was usually much more nimble in combat than she'd been that day. Or, perhaps, Bethany was simply overthinking it-the saar-qamek had affected each of them, before the battle was through. The mage herself had only been able to heal the party's flesh wounds once the battle was through, unwilling to use her blood in the midst of so many witnesses .

Despite the lateness of the hour, Seneschal Bran stood sentinel in front of the viscount's office door, like always. His thin lips twisted into a sneer when he caught sight of the dirty interlopers in their blood-stained clothes and armour. "And just where do you lot think you're going?" He drawled, coming to stand between Bethany and the double doors.

The Warden was in no mood to dance around the seneschal's sensibilities. "I'm going to see Dumar," she pronounced, her voice raw from screaming and coughing. "You'd do well to stand aside."

Bran took a single step backward, his lips tilting into a grimace. "The viscount is asleep at the moment," he informed them. "You should return on the morrow."

Bethany lunged forward, snatching the man up by his fine linen shirt and forcing him back into the closed double doors. "Wake. Him." She demanded through clenched teeth, her face shadowed behind wild hanks of her onyx hair. When his lips worked soundlessly, the Warden huffed and released the poor man, but she did not step away .

The seneschal dithered only a handful of heartbeats before he pressed through the double doors, and Bethany jumped when a booted footfall sounded on the thick carpet beside her. "Do you think he soiled himself?" Isabela sing-songed, throwing the mage a cocky smirk that didn't quite hide the cagey look she'd held since just before stalking off to the Blooming Rose, earlier in the day .

"Andraste's roasted nuggets, I hope so," Varric gruffed from just behind the Warden.

Before Bethany could respond, Bran emerged from a nearby side-door. "Viscount Dumar will see you, Hawke," he pronounced, wearily. "The others will stay here."

Carver's voice rose in protest, but Bethany fixed him with a grimace, and his wordless grunt tapered off . With a nod, the Warden forged ahead after the seneschal, her mabari following at a measured distance. Even Barcus hadn't avoided bruises in the desperate fight in the Lowtown alleyway. Bran led Bethany down a smaller flight of stairs that seemed to take them beneath the Viscount's office. The room she entered instead appeared to be a study, windowless, its walls covered with scrolls and bound volumes. "The viscount will arrive presently," Bran drawled, before disappearing back up the way he'd come.

The Warden didn't have to wait long for Dumar's appearance. One of the shelves opened outward, showing the old man's silhouette for a moment, before he stepped more fully into the room and closed the wall behind him. "I received Guard-Captain Aveline's report on the Lowtown neighbourhood," the man announced without preamble, sounding every bit the elder statesman. "It was...ghastly."

Bethany blinked until her eyes adjusted to the low candlelight once more. Dumar seemed to have aged another handful of years in the past day, if such a thing were possible. "The guards cannot know how bad it was," she commented, almost idly. "Elves driven mad with a Qunari poison, who felt no pain and no fear." She shuddered, closing her eyes against the memory. "Almost like they were darkspawn."

The viscount made a disgusted sound, and his own answer was long in coming. "Serah Vallen's report was vague," he informed the Warden. "Have you any more details to explain what happened? And how the Qunari factor into it?"

The Warden gritted her teeth, breathing in a long, slow hiss. "The Arishok admitted that he's here for a certain purpose," she informed the man. "He will not leave until he's recovered something that he lost."

Dumar's face twitched his displeasure, but he didn't seem terribly surprised. "I see my suspicions were correct...no ship is forthcoming to take them out of our fair city." He shook his head. "But what of the gas? Was it a deliberate attack?"

The fear in the man's voice was understandable, even if it left a poor taste on Bethany's tongue. She'd have been afraid, once, but now the prospect of facing the horned beasts in open combat was almost preferable to the uncertain accord that seemed to grow weaker by the day. "No," she allowed, after a moment's consideration. "The Qunari were guarding their explosive powder from a thief, whom they tricked with the recipe for the gas...but the Arishok assumed that the thief was a merchant, with profit in mind." The Warden shook her head. "It was an elf, though, fighting to keep her people from converting to the Qun." The madwoman's laugh still haunted Bethany, even though the Warden's blades had silenced it more than an hour before. "Now she and a few dozen of her fellows are dead."

"Maker have mercy," the viscount lamented, turning his gaze away from his guest. "I suppose there can be no question of compensation from them," he mused, mostly to himself, and pinched the bridge of his nose. "I'm quickly losing any sense of how to balance this fiasco," he admitted.

"There is no balance," Bethany offered, unsure where the words came from. "The Chantry will never accept the heretics living here; elves have already tried to join the Qunari, despite the Arishok's lack of interest in recruiting. How much longer before poor humans start abandoning their faith, if they haven't already?" She shook her head. "And if the Arishok cannot find what he seeks soon, I don't think he'll be able to tolerate too many more provocations."

The viscount's head seemed little more than a skull, its deep lines muted by the low candlelight. "What do you suggest, Serah Hawke?"

"I have no idea," Bethany replied, turning toward the room's only obvious door. "But whatever's to be done, it must happen soon." She left him, then, without waiting to be dismissed. Tension and unease danced within her on her lonely climb back into the keep's main hall, too many questions unanswered for the mage to rest easy .