"Varric."

The dwarf looks up from his stack of bills, visibly grateful for the distraction. "What can I do for you, Sparkler?"

"I need your help with something."

There must be something in the way he says it, because the dwarf is immediately wary, his eyes narrowing. "Why do I get the sense I'm not going to like it?"

"I'm sure I don't know," Dorian lies. "It's nothing at all, really. A small favour. Hardly a favour at all, in fact."

"Well, you've got me convinced."

"An urgent matter of hygiene has arisen."

"A what?"

"Hygiene," Dorian repeats gravely.

"This… sounds personal."

"It is indeed."

"Uh, in that case, are you sure you want to—"

"I'm afraid Maggie is quite overdue for her bath, and I can't stand it any longer. Something must be done."

Varric is laughing now, both hands raised in a warding gesture. "Hang on. You want me to bathe the Inquisitor's wolf? Why in Andraste's name would I do that? For that matter, why would you?"

These are perfectly reasonable questions. Indeed, Dorian has been asking himself much the same thing for two days now. But his poor nose is at its wits' end. "I can't take it anymore," he says, dropping onto the bench across from Varric and putting his head in his hands. "It's this blasted trip to Val Royeaux. The Inquisitor has never been away for this long before. He's the one who bathes her, and if I'd had any idea what two weeks of unwashed fur would smell like, I would have insisted he take her with him."

Varric laughs again. "It can't be that bad."

"Oh, but it can. She's a terribly messy eater, and lately she's taken to rolling around in the mud after the horses have been through. At this point, she smells like something that's been hauled out of the Fallow Mire. I can't sleep. I can barely eat. You have to help me, Varric."

"Why don't you just ask one of the servants to do it?"

"I tried that. Ten days ago." Not to mention several times since. The servants were willing enough, even going so far as to get everything ready – only to have Maggie decline the proposal with a flash of her teeth. "It seems she's rather particular about who she lets toss her in the tub."

Varric's eyebrows fly up. "So you want me to do it?"

"She likes you. And she likes me. Between the two of us…"

"I don't know, Sparkler," the dwarf says, shaking his head. "It sounds like a terrible idea. Wolves and bathtubs do not mix."

Which was more or less what Morrigan said when Dorian asked her. If you would have a creature of the wilds in your home, you must be prepared for her to act like one. And smell like one. When Dorian inquired whether that philosophy explained her own bathing habits, he narrowly avoided being bludgeoned with a book.

"Very well," he says coolly. "I'll do it myself. But if I'm killed, you can be the one to explain to the Inquisitor why you refused a friend who's saved your life half a dozen times."

Varric snorts and rubs his eyes. "All right, Sparkler, you win. But if we're doing this, we're gonna need reinforcements."

Half an hour later, they're installed in the garden with a washtub, a wolf, a Qunari, a fake Grey Warden, a spirit, a former templar, and a heckler.

That last one is Sera, who's perched on the eaves with a bowl of grapes.

Maggie came along willingly enough, Dorian having duped her with the promise of a walk. He feels a little guilty for betraying her trust, but there was no help for it, and now she's surrounded on all sides. She swishes her tail half-heartedly, as if she hopes this is some sort of game but strongly suspects that it isn't.

"Right, men," Blackwall says gravely. "This is a confinement operation. We hold the perimeter at all costs. If she tries to make a run for it, tackle her."

"Should we be wearing armour for this?" Varric wonders.

"No," Cole says. "She won't bite us. We're her pack."

"We were her pack," Bull rumbles. "Pretty sure she's gonna be pissed with us after this."

"Oi," a voice calls from the rooftops, "is this show gonna start or what?" A grape pelts Dorian in the back of the head. He turns around and makes a hand gesture, which is promptly returned.

Cullen seeks a last-minute clarification of his orders. "Once we collapse the ring, who actually tosses her in the tub?"

"Bull," says Dorian.

"Dorian," says everyone else.

Dorian sighs. "Glad that's settled."

"All right, then," Blackwall says grimly. "March."

Slowly, the six of them start walking toward Maggie, and at first she's not too alarmed, wagging her tail hopefully. "That's right," Dorian croons soothingly. "Group hugs. Group hugs, Maggie." But the wolf is no fool, and she's fought alongside each and every one of them. She knows their tells, and as soon as Bull lowers himself into a crouch, she bolts.

"Hold the line!" Cullen cries, but it's no good: Maggie has spied a weakness in their fortifications. The dwarf is a hurdle easily cleared, and she sails effortlessly over Varric's head – to whoops and cheers from Sera. Mother Giselle has to leap out of the way to avoid being bowled over as Maggie streaks for the stairs, but before she can get there, Dorian throws up an ice wall, forcing her to change direction.

Bull charges after her in a flat-out sprint, but Maggie is too quick for him, and when she banks right at the last moment, he can't check his momentum, blundering into the Inquisitor's precious herb pots with an almighty crash of crockery. The wolf's hairpin turn takes her right in front of Blackwall, and he leaps – missing by a mile and skidding face-first through the mud.

Cole tries a more diplomatic approach, throwing himself in the wolf's path with his arms spread wide. "Stop, Maggie! We only want you to be clean! You like the water! You like—" The wolf jumps up, knocks the spirit flat on his back and keeps running, leaving muddy paw prints all over his tunic.

Cullen goes for the disciplinarian. "BAD DOG!" he thunders. "Stop this at once!" He points furiously at the ground, and for a second he almost has her. Maggie skids to a halt, ears pricked.

But there's dissention in the ranks. "Boo!" Sera calls from the rooftop. "Don't put up with that shite, Maggie! You got this!"

At which point the wolf decides this is a game after all. She crouches low on her forelegs, tail wagging, and when Cullen leaps at her, she bounds away. The commander loses his footing and topples arse-first into the tub, sending water sloshing over the sides, and now he's stuck – plate armour being rather awkward in water – so Dorian goes over to help him. Which is a terrible idea, because he's nowhere near strong enough to haul a strapping templar in full plate out of a tub of water, so now he's in Cullen's lap and they're both soaked and while this vaguely resembles a certain intriguing dream Dorian had shortly after joining the Inquisition, it doesn't quite hold the appeal now that it did then.

Maggie surveys the scene, ready for a new challenger, but no one presents himself. Blackwall lies on his back, caked with mud. Cole stares forlornly at his tunic – Dorian's not entirely sure he realizes it can be washed – and Bull is picking broken branches out of his horns. Dorian and Cullen are sopping wet, and the tub lies in splinters, leaking soapy water all over the grass.

Maggie barks and wags her tail, and Sera breaks out in applause.

"So, we're not telling the Inquisitor about this, right?" Bull says.

"Code of silence, men," Blackwall intones from the grass. "Code of silence."

Varric meet's Dorian's eye from across the courtyard. "Told you so, Sparkler," he says, and Dorian sighs.