If Cullen had learned anything from dealing with not one but two epic, world-gone-mad scenarios during his career as a templar, it was that once the dead were honored and the hotheads reprimanded, those who were left were required to help the traumatized and rebuild the broken.

And apparently even acting Knight-Commanders were required to do enough paperwork to make an eternity in the Void seem preferable to life behind a desk.

With a sigh, Cullen reprimanded himself. Paperwork was necessary. Records existed to help stop mistakes from being repeated. He knew it. He simply didn't want to be the one to write them.

The last time he'd been one of the traumatized, of course. No one made you fill out forms if you were busy alternating screaming about blood mages and subversives and weeping for the Maker to end your life and free you from earthly torment once and for all. No one made you write reports when your waking hours and your sleeping ones were an endless hell of not believing the reality presented by your own eyes. Even now he occasionally woke from dreams so realistic he half-expected to still be trapped within that glowing cage, tortured by his own worst nightmares, his own deepest desires, demons whispering in his ears.

His memories of that time were strange: some parts vivid, others almost faded entirely. And if that Cullen seemed a different man, the Cullen he'd been before the Circle Tower fell was a stranger entirely.

The poor boy. Cullen almost wished he could warn that young, idealistic iteration of himself. For the love of the Maker, run off with the Amell girl, he wanted to say, though it smacked of blasphemy on more than one level. Be happy, you poor sod.

Happiness, like dreamless sleep or a world without paperwork, was a foreign concept. Over the years, he'd simply come to accept it; he'd chosen his life in the Chantry with the Templar Order with his eyes open, after all. Happiness was not a priority when one was concerned with the life and death matters of protecting people from mages and mages from themselves. Duty he understood. Faith he understood. Loyalty and bravery and dedication, all of these were as familiar to him as his own blade, his shield, his armor.

Not for the first time, he wondered if things mightn't be a little better, a little pleasanter, a little less dire if happiness was a concept taken more into consideration. Meredith would have chastised him for softness, he knew, and perhaps it was soft of him to think it. But the Maker knew something needed to change. Here he was, acting Knight-Commander of an Order whose charges were almost all dead, in a city blasted by horror beyond imagining, and the only thing he could think was if only everyone had just listened. Hawke had tried, he knew. He had to respect her for it. Certainly in the last couple of years she'd been the only one who'd tried.

It was, unfortunately, a pity she'd failed. Or that Orsino and Meredith had failed to heed her, rather. He wondered, a little, what place Kirkwall's Champion would find for herself in this new world. He had seen her once or twice, which he thought prudent, and she had, it seemed, taken to heart the pleas he and the guard-captain had sent her way. He… regretted the necessity, but Kirkwall was damaged in more ways than just the physical.

He knew about that, too. If someone had left him alone in a room with a mage in the days and weeks after his Circle Tower ordeal… he'd have done irreconcilable harm. It was not a thought he was proud of, but he could not deny its truth. The memory of his own prejudice stunned him even now, even knowing he'd learned to be more balanced and fair in the intervening years. Even if it meant hurting her feelings to get her to protect herself, he would do it, because he did not want to see Kiara Hawke punished for crimes she'd not committed the way he knew he'd have punished any mage he'd been presented with seven years ago.

There would be new characters in his nightmares now, he knew: Meredith, eyes glowing red; Gate Guardians and slave statues, ponderously heaving to life; his own fallen brothers and sisters in arms. Once again, he was the survivor left standing while a sea of his comrades fell.

He would see the corpses he'd helped recover, the men and women and children.

The children are crying, ser. Can't you hear them crying? They're crying for me. Ser, can't you hear them?

Yes, Tamma, he wanted to say. Yes, I can.

Knowing a mage had caused that damage pulled at the old strings, tempting him to a return to his blind rage and blanket prejudice. But he knew better now than to blame all for the deeds of one. He had only to think of the Hawke sisters—the Champion, blood-drenched and desperate, screaming reason no one heeded, and Amelle with her healing hands and quiet smiles, who'd walked the field of battle and saved at least a dozen of the fallen templars from certain death—to remember he and his were not the only ones suffering from one mage's ultimate act of horror.

His thoughts were interrupted by a pair of squabbling recruits pushing at each other. Like so much of the rest of the city, the Gallows and the Templar Hall were in the process of being mended. For the first weeks, he and his fellows had spent the majority of their time offering aid to those attempting to find survivors, and then collect remains, around the demolished chantry. The recruits looked shamefaced as he chastised them, and went back to work. He supposed it was indicative of the underlying restlessness in the city that he had to break up any number of these small altercations in a day.

When templars had no mages to guard, what were they meant to do? What role were they meant to play?

Or, more distressingly, how mad would they run?

Cullen pushed a hand wearily through his hair and set himself back on the path toward Meredith's—his—office, and his desk, and his paperwork. It certainly wouldn't finish itself.

His office, he found, was not empty. For a moment, Cullen started. Hadn't he just been thinking of Kiara Hawke? The old terror—is this real? Is this an illusion? Begone, demon, begone!—raised its ugly head just long enough for him to freeze in the doorway. She was sitting in his chair, behind his desk, casually examining whatever papers he'd left about. Before he could ask her business—are you real, Hawke?—she looked up and smiled. He knew the smile. It was the bright, sweet, winning smile that told him she was going to ask a favor. It was also the smile that reminded him most of her lost, sweet cousin, though of course he would never mention such a thing.

"Maker!" she cried, "There you are! I've been waiting ages!"

Cullen scratched his head. "Did we have an appointment, Hawke?"

Planting her elbows on his desk, she leaned forward and put her chin in her hands. "We do now. I… thought it best if we avoided a paper trail on this one."

He sighed. "You have a knack for saying the exact right thing to fill me with dread."

She snorted a laugh. "You know me. Always willing to spread the anxiety equally amongst all my acquaintance."

Closing the door securely—and with a brief glance into the hall to be certain their conversation had not already been overheard—Cullen crossed the room and leaned against the wall. It seemed odd to sit opposite his own chair, but Hawke showed no signs of vacating it, so the wall it was. He crossed his arms over his chest, armor clanking. "You shouldn't be here, you know. I am only acting Knight-Commander. My protection extends only so far. And the templars…"

"Are holding a serious grudge. Along with the rest of the city. Which is why you cautioned me to lie low. I do understand. In fact, that's… part of the reason I'm here. I'm… going away for a bit."

Under his breath, and with just a trace of humor, Cullen breathed, "Maker be praised."

Hawke rolled her eyes, but he didn't miss the shadow of genuine distress that lingered momentarily on her features, and it was enough to make him regret the thoughtless attempt at wit. "You'll miss me within the week. Who else do you know desperate or stupid enough to patrol the entire city for you? Slavers at the docks, fanatics in Hightown, lowlifes in Lowtown… need I go on? I didn't even mention the Carta and Coterie."

Cullen almost smiled. Smiling whilst on duty was a little like happiness—not the done thing. It was a hard habit to break. "Yes, Hawke, you're very helpful. You're also a headache. And with the chantry…"

The transformation wrought by the word was sudden and disturbing. Color drained from her face, and her eyes lost some of their shine. Sitting back in the chair, she put her arms around herself and bowed her head. "I am sorry, Cullen."

Gently, he said, "I know you are, Hawke. It's why you're allowed to break into my office and ask me for favors."

A hint of her former good-humor appeared in the ghost of a raised eyebrow. "I beg your pardon. I broke nothing; the door was open. And who said anything about—?"

Cullen raised both eyebrows, and affected the stern tone he usually saved for misbehaving recruits. "What is it?"

Cullen had never seen Hawke so… discomposed — and so suddenly. She jerked ungracefully to her feet and paced a few steps, hands fidgeting and gaze downcast, everything about her demeanor a far cry from the winning smile she'd been beaming at him only moments before. Just as he was beginning to doubt she'd speak at all, she blurted, "I'm… not taking my sister. When I go. I would… I was hoping… I would appreciate it if you looked in on her from time to time. Just you, mind. I… don't know how many of the surviving templars still think Meredith had the right end of the stick as far as invoking the Rite, but I know you didn't. So. I… will you? Please?"

And this request was very nearly strange enough to make him doubt reality all over again. After turning her words over several times, he said, "You are… asking me to… babysit your sister? Your grown sister? Your grown, known-apostate sister?"

Hawke bit down on her thumbnail, caught herself, and shook her hand. Her expression was still troubled, and he'd seen that same expression on her face before, usually when her sister was in some danger. Once, he'd caused that expression. It was concern, certainly, and fear, but mostly it was love—and the love, he supposed, was why he'd… neglected to collect Amelle Hawke for the Gallows, even when Meredith hinted it was what she'd like to see happen.

Meredith would have reprimanded him for softness there, too, if he hadn't fabricated some story about needing to keep the Champion on their side and absconding with her sister seeming to be the wrong way of going about that.

"C-couldn't you consider her the… acting First Enchanter? You know, without the Circle or Harrowings or mages being made Tranquil? She's… she's my sister, Cullen. And right now? You… you are the closest thing Kirkwall has to a voice of law. I'd… I suppose before I go, I'd like to know in this at least we're on the same side. Perhaps it's foolishness, but I… I trust you. I just… I just want her to be safe. For once."

The outright plea in her voice stunned him somewhat, and he… a part of him warmed to think the Champion of Kirkwall thought him trustworthy. A different, older part wondered if Kiara Hawke would speak the same words if she'd known the Cullen who'd survived the fall of Kinloch Hold, the Cullen who'd anxiously pleaded for the deaths of all the Circle, for fear of lurking blood mages still alive, still plotting. The old fears still haunted him, and the old voices still whispered, but he ignored them and extended his hand. "Very well. I will… look in. From time to time. And I will offer what protection I can."

Instead of simply clasping forearms with him, Hawke grabbed his proffered hand with both of hers before pushing herself onto her toes and pressing a grateful kiss to his cheek. He felt himself flush, even though it was simply a gesture of extreme gratitude; Hawke was often effusive. In a way it made him hopeful; if she could recover, perhaps so too could Kirkwall. "Thank you, Knight-Commander."

With a wry half-smile—surely half a smile could be permitted whilst on duty—he replied, long-suffering, "Oh, save your thanks until I think of an appropriate favor you can do me in return, Hawke."

There was nothing halfway about her answering smile. Before she could leave—carefully hooded and as inconspicuous as any hooded figure leaving the Knight-Commander's office could be—he called out, "Be safe, Champion. May the Maker guard you and keep you. Kirkwall will await your return."

She glanced over her shoulder and inclined her head in appreciation. "Thank you, Cullen. You will be in my prayers as well."

#

In a strange twist of fate, it proved more difficult to enter Viscount's Keep than it had been for her to slip into Templar Hall. And though she'd been careful not to be seen by the templars—she was still unsure how many blamed her for… everything, in spite of Cullen's assurances on her behalf, and she wasn't particularly keen to find out—she hadn't expected to find the City Guard quite so… hostile.

Two guards she vaguely recognized—relatively new recruits, then—lowered their halberds, blocking her entrance. Kiara stopped, rocking back on her heels a little, hooking her thumbs in her belt. "Problem, gentlemen?" she asked, even as the pounding in her head begged her to simply knock their skulls together and leave the mess for someone else to clean up.

"No one enters the Keep," the taller one said. Kiara had to give the lad some credit—his voice only broke a little on the final syllable.

"Hmm. It appears we do rather have a problem, then. You see, I need to speak with Guard-Captain Aveline, and… I'm going to guess she is inside."

The shorter guardsman shifted his stance slightly, causing his halberd to scrape against the other in a jarring shriek of metal on metal. It took every ounce of Kiara's willpower not to hit the man, or, at the very least, not to put both hands to her throbbing head in protest. "Guard-Captain Aveline is busy."

"Isn't she always," Kiara opined. "Still, I expect she'll see me. Unless, of course, she left orders I was to be barred? Explicit orders?"

"N-no one enters the Keep," Tall repeated. "Those are the guard-captain's orders."

"Very well. One of you lads want to run along and fetch her for me?"

The guards exchanged a horrified glance. "The guard-captain is busy," Short repeated.

Kiara huffed an annoyed laugh. "No one will fault you for forgetting your lines, boys." She held her hands wide, balancing them like the plates of a scale. "I go to Aveline," she said, raising her right hand slightly. "Aveline comes to me," she added, dragging the left much higher and sending the right plummeting. "Do you see what I'm getting at?"

"N-n-no one enters the—"

"Keep," Kiara interjected. "I believe we've covered that, yes. And Aveline is busy."

"She… she is the Champion, isn't she?" Short whispered.

"Yes, she is," Kiara replied. "And she, like your guard-captain, is very busy. And growing increasingly annoyed. Not to mention tired, hungry, and frankly? More than a little bit cranky."

The guards exchanged another glance, this one more desperate, and more strained. "We have our orders, Champion," Tall pleaded.

Very slowly, Kiara crossed her arms over her chest and arched an eyebrow at the guards. "There are two ways this can go," she said, her voice low and dangerous. "There's the hard way and the easy way. Both ways end up with me going in to speak with Aveline. Do you fellows want to guess which way ends with both your skulls unbroken?"

"The… easy way?" Tall asked.

"It was a rhetorical question," Kiara observed. "But yes. Look, if it makes you feel better, I promise to explain to Aveline what a good job you did. She knows me. She won't fault you for choosing to keep your heads intact. If nothing else, it'll save her time rejiggering the duty rosters."

Short, wisely, said, "The Captain… does hate having to… rejigger the duty rosters."

"She does at that," Kiara said. "So, we're decided then? The easy way?"

A third time the guards exchanged a glance. This time, however, Kiara knew she'd won, and so she was unsurprised when they uncrossed their halberds to let her pass. Chin up, shoulders back, she maintained her mild smirk until she'd passed the guards and entered the keep. The blasé smile faded as soon as the doors closed behind her, and she felt her expression harden into something like concern.

The Keep was quiet. Unsurprising, given the current lack of leadership in the city. She supposed Seneschal Bran was holed up in his office, scowling at documents, but she had no desire to see him, so she immediately headed toward the barracks, and at quick enough a pace that someone would have to be genuinely determined to catch and stop her. The few guards she passed—too few, really—acknowledged her with brief nods for the most part. A couple looked like they would speak, but whatever they saw on her face silenced them.

Aveline's office door was closed, but light seeped out from beneath. Kiara knocked once before pulling the door open. Aveline didn't look up. She scribbled something on the paper she was looking at and snapped, "Report."

"Something wrong, Aveline?" Kiara asked.

Aveline did glance up at this, dropping her pen and sighing as she massaged her temples with her ink-stained fingertips. Her freckles stood out on skin even paler than usual, and dark smudges like bruises marred the skin beneath her tired eyes. "Hawke."

If anyone had ever sounded less pleased to see her, Kiara wasn't sure who or when.

"Your men at the door had to be bullied before they'd let me in. You angry with me for something I don't know about?"

"They're not letting anyone in. It's nothing to do with you."

Kiara tilted her head. "What is it to do with, then?"

A flash of anger brightened Aveline's eyes, and brought a flush of color to her freckled cheeks. "What do you think, Hawke? Perhaps your little band of heroes made it out of Meredith's madness alive, but the same can't be said of the Guard. My resources are stretched thin, and they're still not enough. So, yes, I am trying to keep some control over the situation before it boils over, and that means I can't be bothered by every citizen who thinks they have a bloody grievance that needs airing."

Clapping her hands to the desk, Aveline pushed herself upright. Before Kiara could muster a response, Aveline shook her head and said, "Forgive me, Hawke. It's not you. I'm not angry with you. I just feel as though people are looking to me for guidance and I don't have the first damned idea what to tell them."

"The city needs a Viscount."

"Fish need water and birds need air. Of course the city needs a Viscount. You volunteering for the job?"

Kiara winced. "Hardly. I did listen when you and the acting Knight-Commander asked me to keep a low profile, Aveline."

Aveline sighed and paced to the fireplace, her armor clanking. When she spoke, her voice was gentler, and Kiara felt some of the tension ease. "I can't do it."

"Be Viscount?"

"Maker, no! I can't do that, either. But I meant I can't do whatever it is you're here to ask me to do."

"Oh, Aveline. So little faith."

Aveline snorted. "My faith is fine, Hawke. But every time you walk into my office with that look on your face? All I see are the weeks and weeks of paperwork ahead of me."

"No paperwork. I promise."

Aveline turned, leaning one shoulder against the hearth. Curiosity warred with good judgement across her face. Finally, with another sigh, curiosity won. "Tell me."

"I'm… leaving Kirkwall. Temporarily."

"The Wounded Coast again?"

Kiara smiled wryly. "Thankfully, no. I've got to go to Starkhaven."

Aveline was shaking her head before Kiara even finished speaking. "I'm the guard-captain of Kirkwall, Hawke. Starkhaven's so far out of my jurisdiction—"

"Oh, I don't want you to come."

Aveline frowned, and whatever anger her face had worn a moment before was replaced by hurt. "You don't?"

"I… worded that poorly, sorry. I mean I know you can't come, with your responsibilities here. The thing is, I… Amelle's staying in Kirkwall. And I—"

"You worry about her. And you would like me to keep an eye on her. As I did when you went into the Deep Roads, lo these many years ago. You don't even have to ask, Hawke."

"Thank you, Aveline."

A faint smile pulled at Aveline's lips and deepened the creases at the corners of her eyes. "You must be joking. This is likely the easiest thing you've ever asked of me. Unless… will I have to deal with the pirate's constant attempts to get your sister into the trouble I'm looking to prevent? Again?"

She laughed. "Maker, I hope not. I want to take a boat."

"Maker be praised. You are the bearer of good news today. For a change. And with you out of the city—"

Kiara groaned. "Yes. I know. Your life will be ever so much easier. Andraste's arse. You and Cullen ought to go for drinks sometime."

Aveline sniffed; there was little love lost between the City Guard and the templars, but she rather hoped they might find some common ground—even if that common ground happened to include her.

"I sincerely doubt the acting Knight-Commander and I would have much to discuss."

On a chuckle, Kiara remarked, "You'd be surprised." Then, with a little more seriousness, she added, "Just… with everything that's happened… keep your eyes open, Aveline. With such a vacuum, everyone in Kirkwall will be jostling for power. You'll especially want to increase your patrols around the—"

Aveline raised her eyebrows and gave Kiara a sharp look. "You're not presuming to tell me how to do my job, are you, Hawke?"

Kiara blushed, and snapped her jaw shut.

"I didn't think so. Now, if that's all? I've got duty rosters to arrange, and half a dozen guardsmen to chastise—you wouldn't believe the trouble some of them think they can get up to just because I'm busy. They're like bloody children. Stupid ones. With swords. And half the time they take me for an idiot."

"More fools they," Kiara said, with a laugh.

"Put the fear of the Maker in those boys guarding the front doors on your way out, won't you? Oh, I won't actually punish them, but it's best they realize I am serious about not being disturbed. By anyone other than you, of course."

Kiara snorted. "I'll make sure they know I'm on the guest list. The only person on the guest list."

"Good luck then, Hawke. Drinks when you return?"

Kiara saluted and grinned. "Wouldn't miss it for the world. Give my regards to Donnic."

Aveline nodded, already heading back to her desk and the mounds of paperwork there. Kiara saw her rub once more at her forehead with an idle hand before retrieving her pen and setting back to work. Kiara's own head throbbed in sympathy. She almost wished she had let Amelle deal with it, but—no. It wouldn't do to be too reliant, after all. Her days of headache cures on demand were nearly at an end.

#

When Kiara pushed open the door to The Hanged Man midway through the afternoon, she was surprised to find not Isabela in her usual place by the bar, but Varric holding court at one of the grimy tables, speaking with several dwarves she vaguely recognized as members of the Dwarven Merchants Guild. He nodded at her and ended his meeting, rising to cross the common room.

"Hawke," he greeted affably, clapping her on the back. She winced as his gesture aggravated the headache that showed no sign of ever abating. "You look like shit."

"Feel like it, too, actually," she replied, with a grin. Waving in the general direction of the dwarves still drinking their ale, she remarked, "Something wrong with your palatial suite? I thought you hated mingling with the plebs. Unless you're attempting to win their money at cards."

"Exterminators," he said, after slightly too long a pause.

She snorted. "That's a fine story. What kind of ambience would The Hanged Man have without its army of rats and roaches?" She waggled her eyebrows at him suggestively. "Varric, are you hiding a girl up there? Won't Bianca get jealous?"

He patted the butt of his crossbow fondly. "Bianca's place in my heart is sacrosanct. And you should leave the rumormongering to the experts."

She chuckled, even as she took another quick glance around the taproom. "Don't tell me Isabela's still sleeping."

He shrugged, and then hooked his thumbs in his belt. "Late night."

"Aren't they always?"

Raising an eyebrow, Varric said, "And how often do you see our Rivaini awake before nightfall? Except, of course, when she's following you around on the hunt for exciting somethings. And profit."

Kiara sighed. "Figures. Now I have to brave the lion's den."

Varric made a face. "You're not intending to… wake the beast, are you?"

"Needs must, Varric. Needs must." Someone shouted an order for ale, and the sound of cursing followed the crash of broken glass. "Hey, Varric? You and Isabela ever think it's… odd that you've been living in a shady tavern for more than half a decade?"

He spread his hands wide in an appreciative, encompassing gesture. "Leave this? For what? A mausoleum in Hightown? Who would entertain me at all hours of the day and night? How would I get my ale on demand?"

Smiling, she took a step toward the staircase, but Varric put a hand on her forearm and stopped her. "I'll run the gauntlet for you. Sit down. Have a drink. You look like you could use one. Or five."

"Your tab?"

"Cheapskate."

"You love me."

He grinned, elbowing her lightly in the ribs. "You wish. Now sit." He spoke to one of the barmaids as he traversed the taproom, and a few moments later Kiara had a cool mug of something almost drinkable in hand. She huffed a laugh. She must look awful indeed if Varric was willing to shell out for the good stuff. She'd have to repay him later. Still, it was worth it. The alcohol almost tricked her into thinking her headache was easing up.

Two drinks later, Isabela flung herself into the chair opposite Kiara, leaning forward on her elbows and setting her chin in her hands. The pirate looked even more rumpled and annoyed than usual. "This had better be good."

"Where's Varric?"

"I killed him. For waking me up."

Kiara smirked. "No less than he deserved, I'm sure."

"You're next. Talk."

Turning her head, Isabela shouted an order across the room, and one of the barmaids rushed over a moment later with a bottle and two glasses. Kiara raised her eyebrows.

"Don't need the glasses," Isabela growled, taking a healthy—beyond healthy, really—swig. "Do need breakfast. Lunch. Dinner. Whatever. Not stew." Then she faced Kiara again and said, "Maker, but I'm bored. Aren't you?"

"Funny you should say that."

Isabela's eyebrows twitched. "Slavers to kill, profit to be had?"

"No, actually—"

"Blood mages to hunt down, profit to be had?"

"Isabela—"

"Oh, I know, warehouses to raid, profit to be had!"

Kiara rolled her eyes. "You must have lost miserably last night. Feeling a little light in the purse?"

After another swig of her liquor, Isabela shrugged. "Happens to the best of us. So. Which is it?"

"None of the above. You want to go on a trip?"

"Please don't say the Wounded Coast."

"Uh, not the Wounded Coast."

Isabela made a disgusted face, wrinkling her nose and all but sticking out her tongue. "Sundermount? The Bone Pit?"

"Little farther afield."

Raising a speculative eyebrow, Isabela leaned forward. "Interest piqued. Do tell."

"Starkhaven. Probably sooner rather than later."

Isabela grinned and crowed a little laugh, slapping one palm on the table. "Better and better."

Wincing, Kiara said, "There's… a problem."

Isabela's smile turned sly, and just a little suggestive. "Ooh. I do love it when you talk dirty to me, Hawke. Tell Captain Bela all your troubles."

Kiara coughed slightly, and she was a little sad she had no more alcohol on hand. Aggrieved, she pushed the empty mug away. "We may, uh, require your particular skill set."

"Someone to duel? Or someone to seduce?"

"Neither. We may need to… borrow a boat. And then we may need you to drive it."

"Ship," Isabela supplied at once. "And sail."

"What?"

"It's called a ship. And one sails a ship. One does not drive it."

Kiara narrowed her eyes, but Isabela was entirely serious, her copper gaze steady and unblinking. "Are we actually discussing semantics?"

Isabela rolled her eyes, indignant. "If you want a boat, Hawke, I can deliver a boat. Any fool can provide a boat. Boats have oars. Ships have sails. And cabins. And power. Trust me: you want a ship. And you definitely want me captaining it for you."

"All right," Kiara drawled, "I want a ship. Or, rather, I need a ship."

Isabela leaned back in her chair, drinking deeply from the bottle once again, looking immensely—frighteningly, really—pleased with herself. "That happens to be less of a problem than you think it is, my dear."

"Has anyone ever told you how genuinely terrifying it is when you smile like that, Isabela?"

Isabela grinned. "No one alive to spread the tale."

"Are you going to tell me why the boa—ship isn't going to be a problem? I'm not, contrary to your popular belief, actually made of money."

"If you've enough to pay a crew, I can get you a ship." On Kiara's expectant look, Isabela continued, "Don't tell me you've forgotten about my dear friend, Castillon. He expired so unexpectedly, leaving behind quite the most charming little vessel. Swift as a swallow."

Kiara tapped her lips with the tip of her index finger. "I thought you said it was uncouth and crude to take the ship of a man you killed."

"Well, he'll never get to tell anyone how he was bested so handily, and I won't get to gloat, of course, which is annoying, but the fact remains that you need a ship, and there happens to be one just sitting in the harbor that no one's using at the moment. And beggars can't be choosers. As they say."

"And you can find crew?"

Isabela gave an exaggerated leer. "Oh, I can always find crew."

"Discreet?"

"Unfailingly."

"Fast?"

"You're starting to wound me, Hawke. Also, maybe piss me off just a little. You said sooner rather than later. How soon, exactly?"

Kiara swallowed hard. "Um. As soon as tomorrow to be on the safe side. Probably not later than a day or two after on the outside."

Draining the rest of her drink, Isabela slammed the bottle down and jumped to her feet. "A challenge. Excellent. I do love a challenge. Coin?"

Kiara tossed her purse to Isabela, who caught it handily and made it somehow disappear. She hadn't the slightest idea how a woman so scantily clad managed to keep so very many things hidden about her person. "You know where to find me if you need more."

Isabela waggled her eyebrows.

"Coin, Isabela. Coin." Kiara followed Isabela's example and rose, but before she'd crossed half a dozen steps toward the door, she stopped. "I mean it about being discreet."

"Discreet about what?" Varric asked, coming down the stairs.

Kiara grimaced. "Isabela'll tell you. Keep it to yourself. You can come if you want to."

Isabela chuckled. "Hear that, Fuzzy? You can come. If you want to."

"You have the sense of humor of a twelve-year-old boy, Rivaini."

"I make you laugh. What does that say about you?"

"Really?" Varric scoffed. "That's your comeback? You're getting rusty. Or maybe soft. In your old age."

They exchanged a look and laughed, but Kiara just sighed and waved her goodbyes, already fantasizing about a hot bath and a long sleep. She was likely to get neither, but the fantasy, at least, was enough. For now.