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Alistair sighed, fidgeting in his chair. He had forgotten how long these speeches could go. Once you got an Orlesian rolling, they could wander from the point for hours with their flowery words. Like poetry, with the rhymes and the rhythms until your mind was off somewhere else entirely, wool-gathering, and you started up feeling half-awake when the speaker made a sudden emphatic point with a gloved fist on the table.
Looking around, it didn't appear to Alistair that anyone else was interested in what Lord Cedric … Cecil … Cyril? had to say, either. Leliana was thinking about other things, trying to work through the intricacies of why a dead Qunari had been discovered at the palace. Josephine was worried about that, too, he could see it in the tension in her shoulders, but she was equally worried about the outcome of this Council. With a pang of guilt, Alistair thought he should probably be helping her, rather than sitting here and indulging in the luxury of boredom. While this wasn't going to be his job for much longer, it wouldn't be good for Thedas if either Ferelden or Orlais came out on top in these negotiations. As soon as one of them got control of the Inquisition, they would be ready to go to war with the other, settle all those little headaches left over from the Orlesian occupation.
Not for the first time, Alistair wondered uncomfortably what Maric would have said about him, or, worse, his grandmother, Queen Moira. He strongly suspected they would both find him a terrible disappointment. His only consolation was that he didn't think Cailan would have been much better. In fact, apparently Cailan had fallen victim to some of Celene's nonstop seduction attempts, and at least Alistair had been able to avoid those.
Still, what Orlais couldn't take in the bedroom, or in the Council, they would come after on the field of war. Alistair thought through the options he had for people who could or would take the throne, and none of them were soldiers. Anyone who had fought in the Blight wanted no part of another battlefield, and those who hadn't fought in the Blight were either untried or too old to lead troops again. And a king needed to know what the armies he sent out to defend his land would be facing. No man should ask other men to take on a task he wouldn't tackle himself.
And there was the rub. Alistair had spent two years trying to give the throne away because he couldn't face his own incompetence any longer—and he was beginning to suspect that he couldn't find anyone to do it because he didn't really think it was right not to try harder himself.
Which left him, where, exactly? A king too incompetent to rule and too cowardly to step down. Not a comfortable place to be in. Not at all.
On the other side of the eluvian, Thule was leading the others through some kind of ruined building. A temple, maybe? But wherever it was, the Qunari had already been there, judging from the bodies they kept finding.
Then they found a live one. Quite a few. And they attacked on sight, because of course they did.
It was a hard fight. Years of fighting at the Iron Bull's side had taught Thule that Qunari were formidable in battle, but he hadn't had any idea of what a whole squad of them would be like. He was grateful for Bull's solid presence at his side, and the dazzling flash of Dorian's magic, as well as the dependable ratchet and twang of Bianca.
At last the Qunari were down. The four of them began the process of searching what looked like a camp, hunting for anything that would tell them what the Qunari had been doing here.
"Stones," Varric called. Thule and the Iron Bull hurried to his side, looking down at the blood-spattered piece of parchment in his hand. It was written in both Common and Qunlat.
I have read your reports. Station your people in the abandoned elven tower by the lake. It is a short distance from its entrance to the mirror that connects to Halamshiral. We will need the space to lodge our people after infiltration is complete.
Below the message was a map of the Crossroads, with an arrow from the elven ruins' eluvian to the eluvian leading to the Winter Palace.
"Is that the same message in both languages?" Thule asked.
The Iron Bull nodded briefly, anger burning in his single eye.
"The map should come in handy, at least," Dorian remarked.
On the floor, Thule spied another piece of parchment, picking it up. This one was even more blood-covered than the other; only the Qunlat portion was still legible. Thule handed it to the Iron Bull.
"It says 'an unknown stranger penetrated our defenses. Masked and cloaked.'" The Iron Bull squinted at the page. "A mage who used magic to awaken spirits and turned them against the Qunari. Moved like he knew the place." He looked up at Thule. "You thinking what I'm thinking, boss?"
"I'm thinking this is going to make it a whole lot harder to get through this infernal Council," Thule snapped. "Come on, let's get back."
He led them out of the tower and back through the eluvian to the Winter Palace.
Varric found Seneschal Bran waiting for him impatiently when he emerged from the eluvian. "Viscount, you must not disappear like this!"
The Seeker, who had been waiting for Stones, frowned down at both of them from her great height. "How in Thedas did you, of all people, become the viscount of Kirkwall?"
"A mystery for the ages, Seeker," Varric told her with a sigh. "Bran, I have work to do. I told you that."
"Yes. Yes, you do," Bran snapped. "You do not cease to be the viscount just because you are not in Kirkwall."
"I can dream, though, can't I?" In truth, Varric wouldn't have traded being Viscount for anything in the world. It was the best thing that had happened to him since Bianca's betrayal. But he wouldn't have admitted that to Bran—or anyone else—for a million gold pieces. "What is it that couldn't have waited until I was done being a target for the Qunari?"
Bran blinked at that one, not certain how to take it, then did what he always did when he didn't understand or didn't like something Varric said: He ignored it. "The Prince of Starkhaven is waiting for an answer."
"Choirboy?" Varric laughed. "That's what you're so excited about? Put it in the pile with the letters from the Merchants' Guild."
"They are most strident in their attempts to reach you."
"I'll bet they are."
"The captain of the guard had a very … colorful message to deliver to you as well."
Varric grinned. "Give that one to Hawke. She'll get a kick out of it. Bran, do you ever wish you were still Viscount?"
"Provisional viscount," Bran corrected, as he always did. "And … in truth, no. I do not."
"Good. Then stop riding me so hard, will you?"
"Will you stop giving away pieces of the city?"
"It was just a little title for the Inquisitor. I'm making him take a seat on the Merchants' Guild, too, if that's any consolation."
"It isn't."
"Didn't think so." Varric sighed. "Fine. I won't do it again."
Bran sighed, too, the long-suffering sigh of a man at the end of his patience. "I wish I believed you."
Since Varric was lying through his teeth, there wasn't much he could say to that.