If it wasn't for the good offices of Josephine, Bethany might have been lost here.

Even as works were still going on back at Skyhold, and Inquisition forces scattered idling around the continent, and even as Inquisitor Hawke was rapidly becoming a household name on the airwaves and on the Internet, she found herself not taking the measure of her new responsibilities, but rather with a champagne flute in hand, surrounded by serious-looking people in expensive suits, awkwardly admiring the floral arrangements on the ground floor of the grand hotel's largest ballroom.

No one had approached her, so far: journalists were not allowed on the ground floor of the main venue, only in the galleries and the adjoining press offices, and the other attendees around her didn't seem to know quite what to make of her. Josephine, at least, was always in their midst, busily chatting and chugging expensive wine, so that Bethany could suppose that maybe the other attendees had found her a more approachable partner. Or perhaps they were simply wary of meeting the person whose appearance had shook, to hear Josephine say it, shaken the world stage so hard the conference had been delayed by almost a month until the dust of Haven settled.

She glanced over at the stage, where some of the final preparations for the formal opening ceremony of the Conference were still going on: flower arrangements righted, lights and microphones tested, cameras readied. Before becoming Inquisitor, Bethany had never even heard of the Minrathous International Security Conference, but to hear the others (now, she supposed, her advisors) tell it, it was one of the most important events of the political year. Unlike formal summits, they had explained, the Conference was held in a markedly informal context. The main stage was, of course, open to the press, and briefing rooms were available throughout the hotel for those who wished to engage more closely with the media, but most of the side events—debates, panels, lectures and workshops—were held under the Rainesfere House rule: everything that was said could be used or publicised by those who heard it, but never the identity of attendees or—crucially—who had said what. This way, ministers and officials otherwise forced to toe their government's line were freed, and a better understanding of all parties could be reached than was possible in summits and meetings that were, if not already public, minuted and subject to transparency rules. It sounded a bit shady to her, but—as Josephine had pointed out—if the rules of the gentlemen's game that was international security prevented conflicts from boiling over and wars from breaking out, what price was a bit of secrecy? She'd had to concede the point.

Now, however, she wished that the event was open to the press: by now, she knew how to deal with journalists. Anything was better than standing in the corner with a half-empty flute of champagne in her hand, admiring potted plants.

"Inquisitor Hawke," a gravelly, aged tenor said behind her, in a sophisticated Kirkwaller accent. "It's been a long time."

Surprised, she turned around. "Viscount Dumar." She remembered too late to bow, then remembered that, as inquisitor, she was apparently on equal footing with the head of state, and brought her bow to an early end. "My lord," she lamely offered instead.

The viscount scoffed. He looked older than on TV, it struck her. Older, too, by far, than the last time they had met in person—the early hours of the morning after the Battle of the Gallows. Sherry in the viscount's office, looking out over the burning city, their limbs still aching from the fight. "You need not bow to me, young lady. Even if you weren't Inquisitor and saviour of us all, you are a mage. And a Circled mage bows to no one but her Maker, yes?"

She had to smile at that. The old paradigms were back. "That's the theory, yes. What, er, what brings you to Minrathous?"

The viscount gave a disgruntled shrug. "Someone from Kirkwall had to go, right? Last year, Commander Vallen went—you know her, of course. This time, though, she's busy keeping a close eye on the Accord forces. Have you been keeping in touch?"

Bethany found herself avoiding his eyes. She'd never known either of her own grandfathers, but somehow she suspected this was how grandfathers felt like: always slightly too personal for comfort, just persistent enough to make sure you didn't want to deal with them more regularly than the calendar of family holidays dictated. "Not … not exactly," she admitted. "After we … after I left Kirkwall, I had to break off contact with my friends. Safety, you understand." That wasn't the whole truth, she knew, and she knew that Viscount Dumar knew, too. Still, he did not press the point.

"She speaks quite highly of you." He took her aside, and together they strolled down the colonnade lining the main floor. "Commander Vallen believes the Inquisition might do well to consider establishing a more permanent presence in Kirkwall, and I am inclined to agree."

"That's a new one. Most of the governments we've talked to haven't been too eager to host us."

"Can you blame them? The Inquisition represents the biggest unknown on the map these days, bigger even than Protoarchon Calpernia or the war in Orlais. The former may not become archon for decades, if ever, considering Radonis' age and good health. The latter has been going on for the better part of a year now and doesn't look to be ending any time soon. But the Inquisition? You claim to stand for order, but you also constitute the biggest upset to the established order in decades. Your very title, oh Herald of Andraste, is a bomb under the very foundations of the Chantry. And your forces are a paramilitary army of fanatics and dreamers bearing no allegiance to anyone but you and the Maker. No wonder the governments you deal with aren't more accommodating."

"But you are," she pressed. "Why?"

"Frankly, inquisitor? Kirkwall hasn't been served well by the established order. Maker knows I'm no rabble-rouser, but at this point the only option for restoring the peace and tranquillity that I'm told Kirkwall used to know in ancient times to the streets of our city might very well be fundamentally changing the rules of the game." He paused, thoughtfully. "Well, that and judicious application of violence, of course. But I am happy to report the Accord's occupying forces—pardon, the 'Allied Marches Kirkwall Peacekeeping Force'—is doing plenty of that on its own."

"I didn't realise it was so bad. I thought the Accord troops were there to help keep the peace—win back the city from the gangs."

"So they claim. Some of them may even believe it. There are still some idealists left in Starkhaven, even after Commissioner-General Vitry fell into her coma. Truth is, though, the Accord's much-vaunted 'solidarity' and 'Marcherite values' don't seem to hold much these days. Helping Kirkwall help herself isn't very popular in the other member states' electorates, but apparently robbing my city of all it's worth is. The worst thing is that the Accord troops simply have no idea how to conduct a peacekeeping operation in such a volatile situation. Not a day goes by that Commander Vallen doesn't bring some new grievance before me—firefights between allied soldiers and the better gangs, the ones that are fighting the worst of the lot. Abuses by Accord soldiers, injuring guardsmen or terrorising the innocent people of my city. All three of them, anyway."

Bethany bit her lip. When they had first come to Kirkwall, all those years ago, the city had been in bad shape, she knew. But it had never been this bad. Between the gangs fighting over Lowtown and the city guard, there had yet existed a sort of uneasy equilibrium, which meant the citizens lived largely undisturbed lives so long as they paid protection and didn't stick their noses in things that were not their affairs. When they had come in though … Marian had sought to change all that. I will make this city fit for you to live in, Bethany, she had told her one night at the docks. And, indeed, within the better part of a year—by an explosive mix of magic, connections to the City Guard, clever alliances, and even more clever breaking of these alliances—Marian's unnamed gang had risen to the top of the heap. Lesser gangs had sworn allegiance to her sister in return for a cut, and what they took was invested back into Lowtown. For a while, it had seemed to work just fine.

Then, the disastrous expedition to the Deep Roads had come. Her gang and the uneasy alliances it had forged had not survived Marian's withdrawal into Hightown and drink, and soon Lowtown was again embroiled in a bitter war of all against all; except this time all the rules were off. And once the templars, too, had been driven from the city (to hear the media report it) the city of Kirkwall had descended into near total anarchy, with the City Guard, Gendarmes and the Vinmark Rangers holding on to only a small area of Hightown until massive reinforcements from the neighbouring Accord members arrived. In short—and this realisation pressed heavily on her all of a sudden—the present state of Kirkwall was in no small part her own fault.

"I'm sorry," she said, as if that could help. She'd pray for Kirkwall, see how that worked. It was still odd to solicit the Maker for aid, even now that she had been chosen as the Herald of Andraste.

"Don't be. You have your own problems to worry about, and if the Inquisition were to turn its eyes towards our city …" The viscount trailed off, a hopeful look in his eyes.

She smiled. "I'll see what we can do."

"I ask nothing more. Now, tell me, how is your sister?"

"My sister," she echoed blandly. The smile fell off her face as quickly as it had appeared. Oh, right, Marian had at some point mentioned that Viscount Dumar had offered her his coronet. An unorthodox choice, to be sure, not that she of all people could criticise that. "I don't … we're not in contact, I'm afraid."

The viscount tutted. "Always a tragedy when families are torn apart. She always talked very highly of you, you know. So does Commander Vallen. Approaching you here was her idea. She says to phone her, by the by. I believe her exact instructions were to physically compel you to ring her up, but considering that I am a frail old man, I think we can dispense with that, hm? Do make sure to get in touch, though."

"I … of course. I will." Truth be told, she could no longer think of an excuse not to get back in touch with her one-time friends, at this point. There was no hiding for the Herald of Andraste.

In a grandfatherly kind of way, the viscount patted her shoulder. "Good. Now, if you will excuse me, I think I see the foreign minister of Nevarra over there …"

He left her, but now that the ice had been broken she was approached, in quick succession, by a series of other functionaries: Antivan ministers, Tevene think tank analysts, Orlesian generals, Anders arms industry lobbyists, Marcher diplomats, Fereldan spies … they went by in a flurry of names and faces she could not possibly have remembered just an hour later. People from all over the world, even those that had yet remained untouched by rifts, seemed to want nothing more than to shake her hand and take selfies with her. Some of their names—she knew not which—she thought she recognised from the briefings Josephine and Leliana had treated her to, but the vast majority of them she had never heard of. Observing Josephine, however—who was doing her own fair share of meeting and greeting attendees to the conference—revealed that, apparently, some of the people she'd never even heard of were more important than those she had heard of, no matter their titles. When she later took Josephine aside to ask about that, the diplomat merely smiled. "Every institution, from the imperial Orlesian government to the smallest think tank, has a public face. Often, that public face isn't what really matters. Ministers come and go, and so do their policies: the civil servants who enforce them and the academics who form them rarely do. If you want to effect real changes, you need to deal with every layer of the political machinery." Her smile widened into a conspiratorial smirk. "Besides, never suspect that what you can see is all that's going on. See the gentleman in the robe over there? That's Galla Petrovianus, Officially, he's just a staffer in Magister Albinos' office and the husband of Alexis Petrovianus, who's the CEO of Andratex Group, a minor megacorp. But it's an open secret that last month, he brought down the provincial government of Seheron with a phone call. He controls some sixty votes in the Imperial Senate, which makes him the kingmaker on most bills."

"Wait. If he's just a staffer, how is he so powerful?"

"That's the thing. Nobody really knows. Maybe it's just an image he's cultivated—maybe he'd crumble if anyone could bring up the courage to test him. Maybe he's got dirt on people. Even Archon Radonis isn't keen to put him to the test anytime soon."

Why was it that every time she thought she was getting a grip on the Inquisition's political situation, Josephine somehow managed to prove her wrong? "I have no idea where we'd be without you," she admitted, in all honesty.

The diplomat waved the praise aside. "Oh, pish posh. It's all a matter of reading the right things and talking to the right people. Anyone could do it. All it takes …" She broke off, as her eyes were drawn towards the main entrance, where a crowd had gathered. For what seemed to Bethany like minutes, the thunderstorm of camera flashes obscured the entrance.

"All rise for His Serene Excellency the Archon, and the Right Honourable Lady Protoarchon!"

By her arm, Josephine dragged her towards the pair. As they got closer, led by Josephine expertly fighting her way forward through the throng of people, Bethany could make out the freshly-elected protoarchon, still seemingly in campaign mode, casting radiant toothy smiles all around and shaking hands through the cordon of templar bodyguards ringing around her and the archon. She was dressed all in black, as these Tevene politicians tended to be: above a black pinstripe suit with a closed-neck, high-collared jacket, she wore a stiff black silk robe, dramatically flared at the hips, that to Bethany looked rather plain compared to the heavy robes laden with gold brocade and lyrium runes still worn in the south, by Circle officers at highly ceremonious occasions. Actually, it compared rather well, and the high collar of the robe elegantly framed a sharp-featured pale face topped by a severely-braided head of blonde hair, and the image was completed by a smile that bespoke easy confidence, although it was readily apparent that scowls came easier to her.

Behind her, however, Archon Radonis wasn't shaking hands. He was seething with barely disguised fury. "Radonis campaigned against her," Josephine hissed by way of explanation. "Calpernia has pledged to dismantle most of Radonis' achievements after his death. She seems to stand against everything he's spent his entire political career fighting for; ran a populist campaign based on railing against the 'establishment.' This is only the second time since the election that they've been in the same room together—there's a prevailing belief in political circles that Radonis would rather throw the empire into a constitutional crisis than see her succeed him on the Obsidian Throne. Some people are even expecting an assassination attempt on her."

Well, she couldn't say she was too surprised. That was the sort of thing they did in Tevinter, wasn't it? She kinda wished Dorian would have been able to join them. It would have been interesting to hear his perspective. Even so—looking at that earnest face—it seemed utterly unwarranted. Maker, the protoarchon couldn't be much older than herself. "But she's only just been elected …"

"And her enemies want to make sure she is never crowned Archon. Now, let's go and shake hands."

Josephine deftly took them to the front of the throng. The bodyguard templars had withdrawn to a slight distance, giving their charges space while staying close enough to interfere immediately. "Your Serene Excellency, Josephine Montilyet of the Inquisition. And may I introduce to you Lady Inquisitor Hawke?"

"Ah, yes, the Herald of Andraste." The Archon's handshake was firm and cool, but he regarded her with something between bemusement and a sneer from beneath the plain silverite circlet around his brow. His features were aristocratic, his jet-black beard perfectly trimmed and his expensive robes unblemished black; his voice was frosty. "No doubt we're keeping you from important business. How fares the Maker?"

She could not help but bristle at the question. She'd seen plenty of mockery online and in the media, but so far none to her face. In all fairness, Bethany could not blame the doubters—she might not have believed herself, if she knew not better—but that did not make this any less rankling. Since she could not think of any reply that wasn't snide, and alienating the second-most powerful head of state in the world did not seem a good idea to her, she merely answered, quite stiffly, that she was looking forward to future cooperation with His Serene Excellency's government and that the Inquisition would be happy to assist with any problems that might arise.

Then, they each moved on. "You could at least have made an effort," Josephine whispered to her. "No matter, I'll chat him up later. Ah, my lady protoarchon, congratulations on your victory. I am …"

Calpernia broke her off. "Lady Montilyet." Her smile widened, revealing a prominent gap between her front teeth. "It's a pleasure. I am a great admirer of your work. What you've accomplished so far has been no small feat. We all look forward to what the future will hold for the Inquisition." She left Josephine reduced to almost a stammer by this unexpected charm offensive. "And you must be the Inquisitor, Enchanter Hawke. I've heard a lot about you."

Bethany managed a flustered smile. "Uh, good things or bad things?"

"Both, and every story more astonishing than the one before. I'm curious to find out which are true."

She had to laugh, only half wondering just what kind of stories the protoarchon was referring to. "What if all of them are?"

"Well, I suppose it's possible that you slew two Archdemons, stared down a pride demon and invented the cuckoo clock—but it does seem a bit unlikely." Calpernia's lips twitched upwards. "You should google yourself some day, Inquisitor. You wouldn't believe half the things the Internet would have us think you've done."

"Oh? Might be interesting to see. I, er, I can't say I've followed your campaign all that closely, but I suspect you've got your fair share of unbelievable stories, as well."

Calpernia gave a toothy laugh. "Like you wouldn't believe. I'm happy to say my supporters are at least as creative as my detractors, though. I wouldn't be here today, otherwise. What about you? Will you be speaking at the conference?"

"Oh, goodness, no." Bethany could not stifle a nervous giggle. "I, er—no, I don't know the first thing about security policy. Josephine—Lady Montilyet—will be giving a short talk later, and I'm just here to listen and learn. Hopefully."

"I'm sure you're selling yourself short, Inquisitor. All these … experts" (she dismissively waved around) "have spent decades forming our policy, the Orlesians' policy, and look where it got us. I think the people of Thedas have had enough of them. But you, you and me, we've got a unique perspective on things, don't we? I daresay it's one of many things we have in common."

"Er—like—like what?" To her surprise, Bethany found herself drawn in by this woman, and for the life of her she could not figure out why. They'd only met less than a minute ago, and had barely talked beyond small talk in a crowded hotel ballroom, surrounded by bodyguards and conference-goers. Calpernia was good-looking, she supposed, very dapper, but the attraction she felt was not a physical one. She exuded an air of power, in more ways than one, but that wasn't it, either. Bethany had spent plenty of time around powerful people recently, and few had filled her with anything more than dispassionate respect. The only person who came even remotely close—that would have to be the late Divine Justinia. But that had been different: Calpernia had none of Justinia's air of holy benevolence. Maybe it was something else. Maybe the protoarchon simply spoke with such conviction that Bethany could not help but believe in the rightness of her words.

Either way, Calpernia's smile was intoxicating. "We've both overcome great odds to rise to where we are now, haven't we? You were—what's the word?—an apostate, I believe. Meanwhile I was indentured to the Parable Group for sixteen years."

That was one of the few things even she'd heard about during the election campaign. The first archon who'd been indentured. Her grandparents had been born slaves, before the Great War. "You can't compare that," she objected. "I can't even think—can't even conceive of how hard that must have been."

The protoarchon gave a surprisingly cavalier shrug. "I had it relatively easy, at least. Benefit of being a human mage with the good sense to sell herself to one of the smaller megacorps, I suppose." She nodded towards Bethany's hip. "That's a Parable Mark 9 Defender, isn't it? I was part of the team that developed the first iteration of that staff. The only difference was that my colleagues went home at the end of the day. And that I've still got the tattoo on my shoulder."

Bethany suspected there was more to it than that, but judging from the stiffness of the smile on Calpernia's lips, it wouldn't do to press her on this subject. "A-anyway, that's all in the past now. You're to be archon. That is … well, it's amazing."

"If Radonis predeceases me, at least, which seems increasingly unlikely these days. If not, well, I'll have to run for re-election in ten years' time. Until them, I'm afraid I'm as powerless as anyone." The smile returned to her face. "But please, I shouldn't be boring you with this. You know, I've actually been wondering—in your paper on classifying common gravitational spells in veluscopy, you suggested using a …"

"Hang on, hang on. You read my article?"

Calpernia nonchalantly shrugged. "I'm a subscriber to the Journal of Force Magic, although my specialty lies in primal spells. I rarely get to read anymore these days. It was a good paper, though."

She couldn't help blushing. For a couple of weeks after getting her first and only paper through peer review, she'd checked almost every day if anyone had cited her (no one ever had). At some point, about the time she'd started her MCIS training, she'd forgotten about it entirely. It was—good to hear, if somewhat embarrassing, that her efforts back then hadn't gone entirely unnoticed. "I … thank you. That's very kind of you. Eh, what about you, then? You'll be speaking at the conference, right?"

"True, but not until the fourth day. Right now, to be frank, I'm only here for the opening ceremony. Radonis asked me to be here." She scowled. "Which means he wants me there to mock and humiliate in front of the cameras. He's about to take the stage, by the looks of it." All of a sudden, Calpernia turned back to Bethany. "No doubt the press already have cameras lining up to take reaction pics of me. After all the lies they told about me during the campaign, I think I'd rather deny them the pleasure. Inquisitor, would you like to accompany me? I daresay we could have some fascinating discussions over coffee at my offices."

"I, I, I, er ..." Bethany wasn't sure if that was supposed to be a flirt or just sounded like one to her. "Er, I don't know, I-I really should talk to Josephine first …"

"Oh, come now. You're her boss, not the other way around. Besides, I'm sure we can find some way to aid imperial-Inquisition relations without her help, don't you agree?"

Okay, that definitely was flirting. Or was it? Bethany had gotten pretty much all of her experience in that regard from movies. "Uh," she said. Part of her was pushing her to say no: it was a foolish idea, and potentially dangerous, and she'd never hear the end of it from Josephine. And—and this sort of, er, private meeting with the designated head of state of a foreign power could in no way work out well for anyone involved, right?

The other thirty-five parts of her were swooning, blushing furiously and clamouring for her to say yes. "Uh, yeah. Sure."

"Splendid. I have a car waiting outside, shall we?"

One of the nearby templars spoke into her sleeve. "Spearmint is on the move, prepare the car …"

Half-entranced, Bethany let herself be led out of the ballroom. Lavellan was waiting in the lobby with some other aides, and silently filed in behind them when they walked past. So did five members of Calpernia's security detail and aides. She was pretty sure this wasn't how illicit trysts were supposed to happen, and didn't quite know whether to be relieved or disappointed by that. Good grief, Bethany, you're acting like a teenager …

More police, camera flashes and a small crowd of idling onlookers and protesters awaited them outside the hotel. When they saw Calpernia, an almost frenzied cheer came up, and the protoarchon gave them a languid wave and grin.

One of the dark-suited templars guarding the stairs leading up to the hotel lobby approached them, having been forewarned through his earpiece. "There's a problem with your car, Lady Protoarchon. We're checking it now, you'll have to wait inside for your own safety until we can get it fixed."

"And how long will that take?"

"Hard to tell, ma'am. Upwards of an hour, probably. We didn't expect you'd leave so soon."

Calpernia nodded in the direction of a massive, sleek black limousine parked at the foot of the stairs. It was hard to miss; it was easily the largest and shiniest car Bethany had ever seen. She tentatively reached out with her magic, only to find that it firstly weighed at least eight tons, and secondly rebuffed all her attempts to magically examine it. The chassis must be positively lined with dweomer runes. "No need. I'll take Atlas One. Radonis will likely be a few hours, at the least."

"Uh, ma'am, that's the archon's car."

"And it's identical to mine, Atlas Two, in every respect. The only difference is that he gets to fly the imperial banner on his bonnet and mine just has the flag. If it makes you feel better, you may take that down."

The templar looked ready to object, but a punishing glare from Calpernia shut him up and quickly return his attentions to his sleeve. "Right. Uh, get Spearmint's motorcade ready to move on Stagecoach …"

That having been settled, one of the templars in Calpernia's detail opened the back doors for them. Over the past few months, Bethany had been in her share of fancy cars, but this one had them all beat. When she sank into the leather seats, she felt more comfortable than at her desk back at Skyhold, and could stretch out her legs entirely without even reaching halfway across to the opposite seats.

Calpernia sat by her side, casually crossing her legs. "Where are we going?" Bethany asked her.

"My campaign headquarters. They're not far from here. The protoarchon doesn't have her own offices provided by the government, so we had to extend our lease for at least the next year."

"What happens in a year?"

The protoarchon's grin was almost wolfish. "Who knows," she said. "There might be a vacancy in the Palace of Dreams by then."

"Oh." Bethany looked away. The car's engines started, but only a faint hum could be heard inside the cabin. The blackened windows looked to be several centimetres thick. For a moment she wondered if all this security was truly necessary; then she remembered what she'd just heard. Charming and eloquent or not, this was still Tevinter. "I, er, I must confess I barely paid any attention to the election. I … think I may have mentioned that before."

If she had, Calpernia didn't show it, merely smiled wistfully. "I can't blame you. It was ugly. Still—there's something exhilarating about being out there on the trail that you just don't get once you've won. The excitement of the crowds, the long hours as you tour the country … and always having your enemy right in front of you. It was hard, and ugly, and costly, but I relished it."

"I can imagine. Recently, I've been so busy with setting up at Skyhold, dealing with politics … I guess it's easy to lose sight of what you're actually doing. When you're not down there fighting in the trenches."

Amused, Calpernia pursed her lips. "Hmm. Bit more of a martial metaphor than I'm used to, but fair's fair. Now," the added, turning to face her, "about that paper of yours …"

They talked arcana for a couple of minutes as the car and its small motorcade of police and aides snaked its way through the congested streets of central Minrathous. Bethany was very glad that the Inquisition's delegation had taken a helicopter from the airport directly to the hotel this morning. Finally, the car stopped in front of a tall, nondescript red brick office building. Templars opened their doors for them, keeping a watchful eye on the protestors and fans awakening from their hibernation. By the looks of it, they'd set up camp on the pavement permanently.

They rode the lift to the fourteenth floor, which was listed as belonging to Calpernia for Archon. It read the same thing next to the buttons for the thirteenth and fifteenth floor. Once arrived, the lift doors opened directly onto a large open office space—indeed, it seemed like the better part of the whole floor was one whole office, although it was difficult to see through the avalanche of green and white campaign paraphernalia covering the office. Paper streamers of Calpernia's campaign logo hang from the ceiling, the walls were covered in colourful post-it notes, photos from the campaign trail, and posters with Calpernia's face in a dozen different configurations. Even the ubiquitous beanbags came in shades of green and white. A small host of unrealistically attractive and trendy-looking twenty-somethings were roaming the office in plaid shirts and tight jeans with expensive laptops and campaign-branded coffee mugs. Bethany had never looked anything like that at that age. No one she'd ever known had looked anything like that at that age.

When they entered, a small cheer went up. A couple of people came up to Calpernia with questions. An elven girl actually asked Bethany to let her take a selfie with her, and before she could even ask what for the girl had done so. "You have fans, Inquisitor," Calpernia laughed when she noticed her embarrassment. "Don't be so surprised. You've been saving more lives in a month down there than I've been in two years of campaigning. Well, that and everyone here's a bit obsessed with politics. POLITIQUOI receives more clicks here every day than any other non-Tevene website."

"She'll be so disappointed when it turns out only like ten people in the world recognise my face."

The protoarchon laughed, then led them to a large corner office filled with sunlight. It was like stepping into a different world: the office was almost unnaturally tidy, with not a pencil out of place. A huge, thick Qunari rug lay on the floor, inviting one to take off one's shoes. Whoever had picked out the interior had gone for a sort of synthesis: behind an elegantly curved steel desk topped with blackened glass stood an old-fashioned, richly carved chair made from some tropical redwood and backed with cream-coloured leather. Bookshelves took up the wall to their right, packed to the brim with well-thumbed volumes bearing eclectic titles like The Material Science of Modern Staffmaking, Qarinus Review of Constitutional Law, 9:20-29, or An Imperial Lake: the Nocenian and the Nocenian World in the Age of Vius II. The wall of books was interrupted in its centre by a large TV screen apparently permanently tuned to a news channel, though the sound was muted. In one corner, a classic chaise-longue, an armchair and an ottoman around a low table with a silver tea service and kettle looked very inviting, and it was there that Calpernia led her.

With a wave of her hand, the protoarchon brought the water to the boil. "What can I offer you?" she asked her, indicating the chaise-longue. "I know it's just a stereotype, but I'd imagine you'd go for tea rather than coffee."

Bethany chuckled lightly. "That particular stereotype is actually true. Sure, I'll take tea."

"Have you ever tried Seheron mint tea?" Calpernia continued. She added precisely two spoonfuls of loose tea leaves to the pot, then poured the boiling water on them from an almost adventurous height. "When I was … working on the Defender project out of Alam, we used to drink at least a dozen glasses every day. I got quite a taste for it."

"Hence the code name."

The protoarchon chuckled. "The templars' choice, I'm afraid. They think it's funny. So, will you be having any?"

"Sure. It sounds delicious. I don't think I've ever had it." So far, this was a lot more innocuous than she had expected. They weren't even talking politics, let alone—other. Stuff. Part of her was disappointed, but mostly she was relieved. This was moving very quickly, too quickly even to see where things were headed.

She looked around the office as the tea simmered. A framed black-and-white photograph behind the desk that she hadn't noticed before caught her eye. It showed a dark-skinned elf woman in what looked like some sort of military uniform, seated in front of a Tevinter flag. She seemed vaguely familiar.

The protoarchon had followed her gaze. "Ah. Recognise her? That's Faleria Lanaris."

"The, uh, the spationaut?"

"Hm. We generally call them 'astronauts' up here, but yes." A gleam appeared in Calpernia's eyes. "One of the imperium's greatest heroes. She rose from nothing to become the first person to go to space and orbit our planet."

"As I recall, she murdered her way up through the ranks."

"And who among us wouldn't do the same? Imagine what she must have felt, every step along the way. The pride of becoming the first elven pilot in the empire. Then becoming a test pilot for the air force after the war; forcing her way up, until she was the only one still alive qualified to pilot Aspera I. Can you imagine her, looking down at our planet for the first time? At that moment, everything—the war, the camps, the humiliations—must have been worth it."

Somewhat awkwardly, she shifted in her seat. From what she'd learned about the Great War at school, that seemed to be pushing it. Then again, perhaps Tevinters had a unique perspective on that. "I suppose." Still, the fire burning in Calpernia's grey eyes was certainly infectious. "I, er, I suppose you'll be looking to put money back into your space programme?"

The protoarchon's response was uncharacteristically muted. "Perhaps. It would be nice to go back to the moon, or even further. For now, though, there are more down-to-earth priorities we need to focus on." Her lips thinly twitched. "Pardon the pun."

"What sorts of priorities?"

Calpernia leant forward. "For starters, the attack that destroyed Haven. I've already got a pretty clear idea of what happened. And from what I've been hearing from trusted sources, your best lead goes right here, to Tevinter."

Oh. Right to the throat, then. "In a sense," she said, trying to be conclusive. How much had she heard? Josephine had counselled her against announcing the existence of Corypheus, for the time being, largely on account of the panic that might result. There was the concern that the ancient magister might be carrying the Blight, but Cullen had reasoned that a hulking monstrosity covered in red lyrium would seek to stay out of side for the time being, limiting the risk of exposure. In the meanwhile, they'd reached out feelers to the Orlesian and Fereldan chapters of the Grey Wardens. They'd kept Corypheus imprisoned for ages, so if anyone knew anything about him, it would be them. Had the Wardens leaked something to Calpernia?

But the protoarchon made a dismissive gesture. "There's no need to be coy. Imperial Intelligence knows about—what's his name? Corypheus. The Elder One. Don't worry, you don't have a leak."

"Then how did you find out?"

"Does the name Venatori mean anything to you?"

"A cult of some sort, isn't it? Or a—a party? One of your citizens who we believe was in Corypheus' employ, Magister Alexius, was a member. We are holding him at Skyhold until we can sort out who has jurisdiction."

The other woman chuckled. "Well, as far as I am concerned, do with him what you will. The Venatori are a nuisance, though only a minor threat so far. Ultra-nationalists, mage supremacists, almost in the vein of Galba. According to my security briefings, we've had them under surveillance for some time. We found out about Corypheus when we raided one of their offices." She paused. "I'd extend you my sincerest apologies on behalf of the empire, but I swear we had no idea he even existed until the rumours from Kirkwall reached us. That little escapade was you, too, wasn't it?"

Bethany blushed. Almost automatically, she was going to correct her—'my sister's'—when she caught herself. She'd been there, too, after all. "Yeah," she said. A shadow descended upon her face. "Did a fine job of it."

The protoarchon shrugged. "No one could have predicted he'd survive that, inquisitor. And now you get the chance to finish the job."

"Right. And, please, call me Bethany."

A grin appeared on Calpernia's face. "I'd love to, if you call me Calpernia."

"Er, I thought you only had the one name."

"True, and I'd like you to call me by it all the more. Now …" Calpernia rose from her armchair and, an elegant sway in her steps, moved over to Bethany's side on the chaise-longue. It was very abrupt, she thought, and told herself to stop blushing like an idiot. Just … be polite and be professional. This was foolish, and dangerous, and—it did not help the matter that Bethany could not deny her attraction, or that she was flattered to even be approached by a woman as eloquent, as powerful, or as magnetic as Calpernia. But she'd only ever … with Marian, and …

Part of her mind said: Marian isn't here.

And another part said: What if you're imagining things? You've got a massive crush on her and you're imagining she's flirting with you.

Yes, that did sound like the most likely option. Just her luck, she supposed. The suspicion was strengthened when Calpernia pulled out her phone. "Now we believe that the Venatori themselves had little to no part in the attack on Haven," she began, scrolling through files. "They don't have the manpower, or the know-how. But you're still looking for the people who planted the bomb, killed the lookouts, summoned the demons—right?"

"Er, right."

"Hmm. Now what if I told you that the Inquisition didn't manage to recruit all the mages at Redcliffe, and all the templars at Therinfal?"

Bethany's eyes went wide as the realisation dawned on her. "Wait. Are you … are you saying it was mages who did that?" And templars, too. Why was it that the bad guys were better at cooperating than her own people? Apart from the blood magic and red lyrium, that is.

"It's our strong suspicion. Ah, here it is." She opened the file. It was a photograph of a lean young southern templar in uniform, seated in front of a banner and smiling into the camera. He seemed vaguely familiar. "We believe that the Venatori supply the funding for them. Tracing their bank transfers has led us to this man. You may know him. Knight-templar Ser Raleigh Samson, formerly deployed at the Kirkwall Circle of Magi. Rings a bell?"

"Faintly? I may have run into him once or twice. Cullen may have mentioned the name … I think he left the order at some point, right?"

"Right. He was cashiered and expelled for attempting to steal lyrium in 9:32—by all accounts, he's a junkie, or used to be. Since then, he's been living on the streets. Until Kirkwall rebelled."

It took her a moment to connect the dots. "Red lyrium," she suggested. "He must have gone back to the Gallows after the battle to find some and became infected."

"That's putting it mildly. Here, this is an artist's impression of what he looks like today, based on eyewitness accounts." She swiped right to another image, and for a moment Bethany thought it might be a different person altogether. His face was pale and haggard, almost skull-like, with deep-set bagged eyes and receding hair. Several teeth appeared to be missing. Most disconcerting, however, was the large protrusion in the middle of his chest, which the artist had specifically indicated with red pencil.

Bethany gasped when she saw it. "Maker's grace, has he really got red lyrium growing out of his chest? How is he still alive?"

"Good question, but at least it makes it easy for us to track him. From what we can tell, he didn't join the assault on Haven in person, but he almost definitely organised it. Travelling, as you may imagine, is difficult for him: he'd set off hazard detectors from here to Gwaren."

She bit her lip. So this was the face of her enemy, the one who'd attacked Haven and forced her to kill so many—no. It was he who was responsible, he who had killed them. Corypheus' top lieutenant … "I know this is a lot to ask, but do you have a location on him?"

Calpernia smirked. "Funny you should ask that." She swiped over to the next file. It was a black and white map of what took her a moment to recognise as northern Orlais. "We believe Samson and his closest associates are hiding out here, near the village of Dumas-sur-Roche. Now, I don't have any more specific details …"

"There's no need," Bethany replied, beaming. Justice for Haven was in reach, and they were one step closer to Corypheus. "This is the best news I've heard in at least a month. I'll—I'll talk to Leliana and Cullen. We'll find some way to … to deal with Samson. Thank you so much … oh, I could kiss you …"

That had slipped out accidentally, but Calpernia leant back on the chaise-longue, a confident gleam in her eyes. Bethany felt strongly reminded of Marian, or at least, of how Marian had once been. "Is that so, huh?"

Furiously blushing, Bethany rowed back. "Uh, figuratively speaking, of course."

The protoarchon made a face somewhere between mock disappointment and a laugh, but Bethany wouldn't be able to tell which she'd been going for as someone knocked on the office door. "Ma-ma'am? There are some … some gentlepeople here to see you."

Calpernia rolled her eyes and raised a finger. "Can this wait, Rictus? I'm …" her eye slid back to Bethany. "… in the middle of something."

"Ma'am, they're from the Imperial Security Council! They say they'll only speak to you!"

There was a pause. Then: "Send them in." Calpernia withdrew, rose to her feet, and that was the end of … whatever that had been.

The door was opened and a whole lot of brass moved in. Literally, in the case of some of them, whose chests were straining under the weight of medals and ribbons. Seven grim faces turned to Bethany in sequence, scanned her, found that she constituted no threat, and returned to Calpernia.

"Stratege Hypodoxia," Calpernia greeted them with a raised brow. "And Strategoi Antilles, Rabis. General Faber, General Amiroutzes. Enchanter-General Agrippa. Director Perian. What, if I may ask, brings the entirety of the Imperial Security Council to my humble offices?"

The one Calpernia had addressed as Stratege Hypodoxia, a greying woman in a black navy uniform who looked to be made entirely of silverite, cast another glance towards Bethany, who avoided her steely eyes. "My lady protoarchon, Lady Inquisitor—twenty-five minutes ago, at 1252 hours, a bomb exploded underneath the Archon's car when he was leaving the conference. He was rushed to the hospital immediately, but was declared dead a few minutes ago. We've instituted a media blackout, but the rumour mill is already spinning."

There was a long moment of silence. "Excuse me," Calpernia finally said, reached for the backrest of the armchair. "I—I need to sit down, I think."

"We will need you to prepare an address to the nation," Hypodoxia volunteered. "And prepare for the ceremonies. My lady proto-" The stratege stopped herself. "Pardon. Your Serene Excellenc—Archon Calpernia—the imperial armed forces are at your disposal. If we could have the room for a while, General Faber of Strategic and Orbital Command has your thaumic briefing ready …"

As a dazzled Bethany left the new archon's office, she was struck by how lucky they'd been to switch cars with Archon Radonis.

Whoo all the politics! This was fun to write.

1) The Minrathous International Security Conference is of course based on the Munich one, although a bit more shady. Rainesfere House is Chatham House.

2) Galla Petrovianus is a thinly-veiled version of Jaroslaw Kaczynsky on steroids and blood magic.

3) The story of Faleria Lanaris (pilot, blood mage, astronaut, and all-around psychopath) is a persistent plot bunny of mine. We'll see.