Seth sighs as he surveys the rubble. The demolition is taking forever. Dorian warned him it would. Something to do with all the ancient enchantments and buried demons here in the ancient heart of the city. Have to be careful where you dig in Minrathous, and how. You'll just have to be patient, amatus. As if Dorian is in a position to lecture anyone about patience.

Seth is trying, he really is. He's spent the past two weeks with his nose buried in books, learning everything he can about the climate and vegetation of Minrathous. (This involved spending considerable time wandering through the stacks of the Magisterium's library, to his husband's delight. The only thing Dorian enjoyed more than showing his amatus around was seeing how the other magisters reacted to Seth's presence. He turned it into a drinking game: each time they overheard the words outrage, absurd, or rattus, he took a sip of wine. He was quite thoroughly tipsy by the end of the first hour.) It was a useful exercise, but there's only so much reading you can do before you start itching to put your newfound knowledge to good use, and Seth is very itchy indeed. His designs are ready. His designs are perfect. Exotic plants from far and wide are making their way to the Imperium by land and sea at this very moment. But at this rate, he'll be an old man before they actually start planting this garden.

"There's an abundance of caution," he murmurs, "and then there's whatever this is."

His valet-cum-bodyguard grunts in agreement. Harmon hasn't spent a lot of time outside the villa – he's Dalish, and was a house slave before coming into Dorian's employ – so at first he quite enjoyed his new assignment. But like his charge, he's grown thoroughly bored of watching the crew of city workers and their mage overseers knock down derelict buildings and tear up their foundations.

"You can go home, you know," Seth says for the umpteenth time. "I'm quite capable of taking care of myself."

Harmon snorts softly. "I'm well aware, my lord, but your husband would roast me on a spit."

Seth can't deny it. Dorian is doing his best to keep his promise and not let his fears for his husband's safety rule their lives, but Seth is realistic. Old habits die hard.

A shuffling sound to his left catches his attention – and Maggie's too. The wolf's ears prick up, and she growls. Seth spies movement out of the corner of his eye, but when he turns his head, there's nothing there. Harmon starts to reach for his bow, but Seth murmurs, "Wait. Just pretend you don't notice."

"My lord?" This, too, is an old habit. Seth has told him a hundred times the titles aren't necessary, but Harmon has been a slave far longer than he's been free; it will take him a while to adjust.

"I don't think they're a threat," Seth says.

"Who?"

He can feel the eyes on the back of his neck now. He doesn't move, and slowly he hears them come out of hiding, emerging like snails from their shells. Maggie growls again, but it's the low, non-threatening kind. She wants Seth to know they're there, but she's not alarmed.

"Do you have a question?" he calls without turning his head.

He senses them freeze.

"It's all right," he says. "Questions are allowed."

There's a brief hesitation. Then a small voice says, "Is that a wolf?"

Casually, Seth turns his head. Half a dozen small children stare at him from a safe remove. Street urchins, from the look of them. Filthy, tattered clothing. Dried snot under their noses. Humans all, ranging in age from about four to eight. "It is," he says mildly.

"Told you," a dark-haired little girls crows, swatting the boy beside her.

"Her name is Maggie," Seth says. "Would you like to pet her?"

The children look at each other uncertainly. "Dogs bite," one of them says.

"Not this one." That's perhaps stretching the truth, but she only tears out throats when I tell her to does not seem like the best response. "Maggie, dara." The wolf is only too happy to comply, trotting over with her tail wagging. The children shrink back, so when she's about halfway there, Seth adds, "Dhama," and Maggie sits. The children exchange another look, and then the dark-haired girl ventures over, patting Maggie on the head. Maggie licks her hand and she giggles, and that's enough to convince the others; they crowd around the wolf, and though some of them are a little firmer in their affections than Seth would like, Maggie takes it stride. After all, she's been cuddled by the likes of Cassandra and the Iron Bull.

Harmon looks them over with a stitched brow. "What are you lot doing here?"

"We live here," the eldest boy says. Casting a forlorn look at the rubble, he adds, "Or, we used to."

Seth's heart sinks. They'd seen the squatters rags when they first looked the place over, but it had never occurred to him they belonged to little ones. "I'm sorry, Da'len. I didn't know." He drops to his haunches. "Are you hungry?" Without waiting for an answer, he digs into his satchel and produces some fruit. There isn't quite enough to go around, so he takes his pocket knife and cuts the apples into slices, and then he divides the orange into sections. The children cluster around him now, eyes wide and eager.

"Thank you, my lord," the eldest boy mumbles around a mouthful.

"He's not a lord, stupid," says the dark-haired girl. "He's an elf."

Harmon scowls. "He's a Your Worship, actually."

The boy tilts his head curiously. "Do people really worship you?"

Seth bites down on a laugh. "Some people do."

"Are you a mage?"

"I'm afraid not."

"He's the Inquisitor," Harmon says, a little tartly.

"What's an inquisitor?"

"You know," says Seth, "I'm not sure I ever really worked that out." He glances over at Maggie, but she's fine, happily licking sticky fingers. Harmon, meanwhile, seems to feel a little silly about being prickly, and digs through his pack until he finds a wheel of cheese. Which proves he's been living in the Imperium for far too long.

Seth is trying to work out what to do next when his husband arrives on the scene. "Here now, what's this?" Dorian asks lightly.

The little boy turns white as a sheet. "Magister!" he cries, and they all scatter like startled deer. Seth calls after them, but it's no good. They don't even glance back.

"Quick, aren't they?" Dorian observes, as if he's not entirely surprised by this reaction.

"They certainly are," Seth says, uncoiling from his crouch. "Why did they run away like that?"

Dorian shifts uncomfortably. "Street urchins have a difficult time here, I'm afraid. More than perhaps elsewhere, even. The city rounds them up whenever it can. On the plus side, they're given roofs over their heads and three meals a day. On the downside…"

"They're made slaves," Seth finishes with a sigh.

"I'm afraid so. It's on my list, amatus, but…"

"I know." Seth once referred to Dorian's work in the Magisterium as the work of a lifetime, and he meant it. Realistically, it's probably the work of several lifetimes.

"They were curious about you, I take it?" Dorian asks.

"About Maggie, mostly. But Dorian…" Seth scans the rubble with new eyes. "They were living here. We've just demolished their home."

"Ah," Dorian says quietly.

"We can't just let that lie."

"No, I suppose we can't." He sighs. "Leave it with me. I'll think of something."

Seth smiles. As many things as there are to dislike about the Imperium, it can't be all bad if it produced this gem of a man. "Thank you," he says, giving Dorian a peck on the cheek. "But I think you mean we'll think of something."

"Naturally," Dorian says wryly, looping his arm around Seth's. "Shall we?"