The Patriarchs' Ball is being held at Juventus, Minrathous's most venerable dining establishment. Dorian's four-in-hand pulls up under the porte cochere at precisely ten past fashionable, and the great gilded doors swing open, disgorging a phalanx of liveried footmen armed with sherry and lemon-scented towelettes. The carriage doors are opened with crisp white gloves, and a set of polished brass steps is produced for the dwarf. Then the servants arrange themselves in a colonnade on either side of the velvet carpet, hands folded behind their backs. It's as choreographed as a dance, as crisp as a military drill.
"Impressive," Varric says. "Also a little creepy."
"Minrathous in a nutshell," Dorian drawls.
"So, this is one of those everybody who's anybody will be there things, right?"
"Dear me, no. This is far more exclusive. Minrathous is full of somebodies, but only the five hundred most fashionable persons in society will be here tonight. Along with their guests, of course."
"Ah, the famous Five Hundred. And we're on the list. Lucky us."
Dorian snorts softly. "Luck has nothing to do with it."
They step into the courtyard, all fluted marble pillars and gilded balconies and mosaic tiles. Garlands of flowers festoon the balustrades, and ropes of magical lights crisscross each other in a cat's cradle overhead. Seth pauses on the threshold, taking it all in. To the casual eye, he's admiring his surroundings, but Dorian knows better.
"Taking note of the exits, amatus?"
"And the elevated positions, not to mention the shadowed corners." He tilts his head. "The flowers are nice, too."
Dorian pretends not to notice the other guests pretending not to notice them. It's a time-honoured tradition at these functions, although Seth's presence makes it more challenging. Especially tonight, with his very Dalish hair, shaved over his left ear and swept to one side. A small section of hair is braided tight to his scalp, studded at regular intervals with beads of halla horn. (Procuring the latter was something of a scavenger hunt for the servants, but miracle of miracles they triumphed.) This shocking hairstyle is having precisely the effect Dorian knew it would. Some of the guests are scandalized, others amused. Still others are eying Seth wolfishly, wondering if this wild elf is as deliciously savage as he looks. It's the sort of scene that would have tickled Dorian to the tips of his moustache just a few years ago. Now, it stirs in his belly like a meal that doesn't quite agree with him. Perhaps he's getting old.
Varric reaches up to swipe a glass of wine from a passing servant. "So, what's the plan, Sparkles?"
"Apart from trying not to get ourselves killed?"
"Trying not to get ourselves killed is more of a goal than a plan."
"Let's do a sweep of the courtyard," Seth says. "Get a sense of who and what we're dealing with. I'll take the right. Varric, you take the left."
Dorian arches an eyebrow. "And yours truly?"
"Grab a drink. Make pleasant conversation." Before Dorian can argue, the rogues are melting into the crowd on either side of the room.
Dorian takes Seth's advice and installs himself near the champagne fountain, which in addition to providing refreshment is an excellent vantage from which to observe the proceedings. The Patriarchs' Ball is first and foremost a matchmaking event, and there are few things more entertaining than observing the cream of this year's crop strutting about like peacocks, hoping to catch the eye of a likely mate. Dorian is not alone in enjoying this pastime. To his delight, he soon finds himself surrounded by like-minded observers – the symbolically married, the stubbornly unmarried, the inveterate provocateurs – and they swap commentary like an impromptu panel of judges.
"That young man is far too pale to pull off yellow."
"She moves like a constipated goat."
"He's set his cap at Lady Chiara? Oh dear. He obviously doesn't know."
At one point, a gleeful spinster whose name Dorian has forgotten leans in and murmurs, "How long since you were one of the hopefuls on display, Magister Pavus?"
He wrinkles his nose. "An age, and I was never hopeful. I was disruptive and resentful."
"Ah, but you were a glory to behold. Bright and beautiful and cheeky, and a Pavus on top of it. I daresay you were the plum of the lot. And then you went and married a man, and an elf besides." She pats his arm affectionately. "Brilliant. Simply brilliant."
It's entertaining enough for a spell, but when forty minutes have gone by and still no sign of Seth or Varric, Dorian starts to worry. He excuses himself from his fellow judges and goes looking.
He spots the dwarf quickly enough, spinning tales for credulous ears. "Is it true he keeps a wolf as a pet?" a woman asks as Dorian passes. "And a bear," Varric says. "Walter, he's called. The servants are terrified of feeding him…"
Dorian snorts softly and continues on. He finds his amatus in a secluded spot at the edge of the courtyard, deep in conversation with a pretty young woman. Seth's expression is impossible to read, but the woman is animated, and standing very close indeed. Flirting, it seems, and Dorian decides a rescue is in order. "There you are," he says airily as he walks up. "You've been gone for ages, amatus."
Oddly, the girl seems quite pleased to see him. "Magister Pavus," she says in an urgent whisper. "Please convince your husband to help me."
"Help you?" Dorian quirks an eyebrow. "I'm sorry, do we…?"
"Forgive me." She dips into a hasty curtsey. "Lady Alessia Consus. As I've just explained to the Inquisitor, I've been betrothed against my will to Lord Lucius Erimond. I believe you know the name?"
Dorian's eyes meet Seth's. An unmistakable wariness there. "We do," Dorian says. "His uncle Livius was Venatori." And Seth chopped his head off. It seems best to leave that last bit out, though she probably knows it well enough.
"Yes, exactly," she says. "His nephew is every bit as vile, and I will simply die if I'm forced to marry him."
"I sympathize, but—"
"I knew you would!" She clasps her gloved hands before her hopefully. "You managed to escape your situation and marry for love. How could I not wish the same for myself? All I ask is for the Inquisitor to escort me someplace private, and to be seen doing so. We'll stay away for twenty minutes or so, and that will be enough."
"Ahhh, I see." Dorian can't keep the irritation from his voice. "Enough to taint you, you mean. Erimond can't possibly marry a girl who's been sullied by a wild elf."
The girl blushes and drops her gaze to the floor. "It's awful, but I didn't make the rules. I'm simply trying to play the game to my advantage."
"And what of my reputation?" Seth asks coolly.
"That's the beauty of it! No one will actually believe you've been unfaithful. They don't have to. The gossip alone will be enough. Erimond's family will never allow the match. Please, my lords, I beg you." There are tears in her eyes now, and her chin trembles. "Don't abandon me to a lifetime with that awful man!"
There's a sudden flash of warmth against Dorian's finger. Seth is discreetly rubbing the bellasan bracelet Dorian gave him all those years ago, the one that's magically tethered to a ring on Dorian's finger. "I'm willing if you are," Seth says, but the warmth on Dorian's finger tells a different story. Seth thinks it's a trap, and he wants to spring it.
"Very well," Dorian says, and the words carry a double meaning. "The game is afoot."
It begins with a leisurely turn about the courtyard, Lady Alessia on Seth's arm, laughing loudly and often. The pair draw plenty of attention to themselves before Seth takes her hand and draws her into one of the private dining rooms off the courtyard. No sooner has the door closed than the whispers begin. Dorian spends a few precious moments looking for Varric, but he doesn't see him, and he doesn't dare leave Seth alone in that room for long.
He gives them five minutes, which already feels like an eternity. Then he freezes the lock with a wave of his hand and barges through. Alessia whirls around in surprise and fury. "What are you doing?"
"I thought a little added drama from the jealous husband couldn't hurt," Dorian says breezily – just as he feels a tug on the Veil. A mage leaps out from behind the curtains and slings a hissing spear of frost at him – but that premature tug on the Veil gave him away, and Dorian is ready for him, easily dispelling the attack even without the benefit of a staff.
Young people. Honestly.
Alessia pulls a knife on Seth – which of course he divests her of instantly and flings at her lover instead. The mage grunts as the blade sinks into his shoulder, and then he bolts. Seth leaps after him, and Dorian can hear the other guests gasping as a chase ensues. He himself has to take the time to deal with Alessia, immobilizing her with a spell before binding her wrists with a curtain tie, and by the time he gets back out into the courtyard, he's lost track of them in the crowd. The onlookers aren't interfering – why would they, when there's entertainment to be had? – but Erimond has an ally on the field, and he almost catches Dorian off guard, winding up for a surprise attack from the shadows. Happily, Erimond isn't the only one who brought backup, and before the mage can strike, the point of a knife pricks at his flesh.
"I'd let go of that spell if I were you," Varric says. "Unless you won't be needing your kidneys."
"There he is!" someone cries merrily, just as Erimond Fade-steps up to the first floor gallery. Dorian is about to follow when he spots his amatus giving chase. Seth is nowhere near the stairs, but that doesn't slow him down; he races up the wall, springs to a pillar and back to the wall, grabs a string of lights, and swings up onto the gallery.
The crowd oohs, and there's even a smattering of applause.
By the time Dorian Fade-steps up to join them, his husband has Erimond pinned to the ground, a blade at his throat.
"Three things," Dorian growls as he crouches over the subdued mage. "One, whatever silly vengeance you were planning, you ought to know that your uncle was a waste of skin and fully deserved to have his head chopped off. Two, the Inquisitor and I have defeated a darkspawn magister, brought down a dozen high dragons, and saved the world no fewer than three times. You and your ilk are not, and will never be, anything like a match for us. And three…" He looks Erimond over and shakes his head in disgust. "This cloak is an absolute atrocity and your tailor should be jailed. Off with you, boy."
Seth lets him up, and he's promptly escorted away by the restaurant's highly irritated security staff. When they're safely out of earshot, Dorian smirks at his husband. "You, Lavellan, are a shameless show-off. You could have caught him before he made his way up here."
Seth flashes his pirate smile. "You're always telling me that Minrathous likes a good show."
"Well, they certainly got it." He loops his arm through Seth's and they head back down to the courtyard – by the stairs this time. "You do know what this means, of course."
"I do," Seth says. "Next time, it'll be harder."
