With Tango's load lightened, Isabela set off before dawn, the rhythmic pound of hoofbeats against earth a low thrum that barely disturbed the gentle birdsong drifting down from the high pines. Amelle watched her go, until Tango's cherry chestnut coat blended and faded into the predawn mist. Behind her, Varric and Fenris busied themselves breaking camp as they readied their own departure. She checked Falcon's saddlebags once more, eyeing his load.
"She'll be fine," Varric said, tightening the straps on Cedric's pack as the shaggy little horse lowered his head and tore up a mouthful of grass, chewing placidly. "Much as she claims to hate horses, one thing Rivaini does love is speed. I'd be surprised if she doesn't catch up with us before Highever."
"Speaking of which," Amelle replied, stretching out her ankle and rotating it—there was a hint of stiffness, but no pain. "What exactly are we going to do about Highever?"
Varric waved a gloved hand. "Falcon's also going to be fine. We aren't the first people in the world to board horses."
"I think," Fenris interjected as he crouched by the dying embers of their fire, covering it with dirt, "Hawke's concern lies more with your idea she should swindle the Archon." He stood, brushing his hands clean.
"You don't mince words, do you, Broody?"
Fenris stared intently at the fading ashes. "I don't make a habit of it."
Amelle watched Fenris' profile a moment, turning over their brief conversation the night before. They'd reached no satisfactory answer as to whether she ought to agree to this scheme of Varric's, and while Amelle was sure the smart thing to do was to burn those documents and tell Varric they were sailing to Kirkwall at the earliest opportunity…
She couldn't.
Walking away was the smart thing to do. The safe thing to do.
But it wasn't what she was going to do. Amelle knew that much. Her gut wouldn't let her walk away from this. She didn't particularly want a lyrium mine—to say nothing of several—but neither did she want that much power to go into the hands of slavers. Let them use their own lyrium, if they were going to use any at all. What in all the Void did they need Ferelden mines for? And why so many?
"You said something last night about a plan?" Amelle asked Varric, keeping her tone as neutral as she knew how, running her hands across Falcon's tack, checking everything one more time.
"By plan," he said, "I'm going to assume you mean how I expect us to get through the transaction unscathed?"
Casting the dwarf a sidelong glance, she replied, "That's an accurate way of putting it, yes."
"Have you ever known me to not have a plan?"
Amelle laughed despite herself. "Do you really want me to answer that? Because there was that near brush with the authorities in Amaranthine—"
His thick brows drew together in a frown. "Hey, I thought we agreed never to bring that up again."
"You agreed never to bring that up again," Amelle corrected him. "I saved your hide and it's sheer luck on your part and my own good nature that's kept me from reminding you. Daily."
"Saved my hide. Hah." Varric gave a snort and, deciding that Cedric's pack was strapped securely enough, turned away from the animal to shoot Amelle a look. "That's an interesting way of putting it. Fluttered your baby-greens at a couple of Grey Wardens—"
"There was no fluttering. I just asked them to intervene on behalf of my poor, inebriated dwarven friend."
"Inebriated," Varric scoffed, crossing his arms. "You've never seen me inebriated, Hawke, and you know why?"
"Do you really think you're in any position to split hairs over this?"
He went on as if she hadn't spoken. "Because you're already under the table by the time I get there."
"What are you so upset about? It was either a slight dent to your manly dwarven pride or a jail cell for forty-eight hours—or worse. Without Bianca, I might add. I did what I had to do. And it worked. Thus it is my deepest hope you have a plan for Highever so we don't have another Amaranthine on our hands."
"We won't. Believe me, that was one learning experience I don't ever want to repeat." Varric held up one hand, silencing Amelle before she could interrupt. "A lot of it depends on what Rivaini carries back with her to Highever, but from the looks of those journals, we'll have some time to prepare if we need to."
"How much time?"
"Couple days—which should be plenty."
Amelle was not feeling particularly reassured, and her expression showed it. Varric read the crease between her brows and the downward pull of her mouth with the ease of a master, and nodded once to himself. "All right," he said. "Once we're saddled up and on our way, I'll tell you just how I think this is going to have to play out if it's going to work. And what we're going to have to do so we don't have another Amaranthine."
"Why wait?" asked Fenris.
Varric shrugged. "Figured we could use something to pass the time."
#
By the time they reached Highever, the sun was high above in the midmorning sky, and Amelle found herself in some ways less concerned with just how they were going to pull this off, and in some ways more concerned. Fenris remained quiet for most of the ride, which wasn't unlike him, but the quality of silence had, with every mile, inched its way under Amelle's skin. She already knew he wasn't particularly thrilled with the idea—she wasn't either, but when you came right down to it, Amelle disliked the consequences of inaction more than she disliked the consequences of action.
Assuming Varric's plan worked. And if they could get all the pieces in place beforehand, there was no reason it wouldn't work.
Problem was, getting all the pieces in place beforehand was going to be a hell of an undertaking.
In the meantime, though, there was Highever.
There were a number of things Highever had going for it, the first being a port city with the closest routes to the Free Marches; Amaranthine was a cheaper port, but it was further away (convenience had its price), which made all the difference in the world when it came to shipping livestock, tourists, and imports of the edible variety. Not only did the port receive imports, but it was also a hub for exports, many of them originating from Highever itself—handcrafted furniture, cheeses, and a rich port wine coveted all over Thedas.
It was also the hometown of the one and only Elinora Cousland, wife to Ferelden's Governor Alistair Theirin, but a person of note in her own right. When a blight and famine struck Ferelden, starving its people and destroying its livelihood, the politicians collapsed in on themselves—the assassination of the previous governor, Alistair's elder brother Cailan, led to political machinations far and beyond Amelle's understanding. In response to the chaos, the younger Cousland had joined the Grey Agency and the ranks of its security investigators, called "Wardens," while her brother had worked to keep Highever from falling apart in the tumult. Working independently, the Grey Agency brought to light extensive corruption within Ferelden's political ranks. Once the infighting and backbiting was eliminated, and a special election held to fill the newly empty offices, Ferelden had been able to start the process of healing and recovery, and Cousland had been promoted to Chief Director of the Greys. Some people grumbled, because it was seen as a conflict of interest, given she wound up marrying the newly-minted governor, but Amelle mostly thought it showed good taste on Theirin's part, since the Greys were, among other things, a top-notch security organization. Nobody was going to try and kill a man whose wife's skill with a pistol was legendary and second only to her skill with a rifle.
There were rumors and tall-tales abound about Elinora Cousland, but there was one thing you could always take to the bank: Highever loved its daughter unabashedly and unapologetically. It was a place that had something (someone, in this case) to be proud of, and that pride became a part of Highever's personality. It was clean, pleasant, and very cosmopolitan; it wasn't the bustling capitol city Denerim was, which sometimes made business slow, and sometimes downright difficult for Amelle, Varric, and Isabela if and when they traveled that way, but it was always an interesting stopover, one way or another.
As they rode through the city gates, the first thing that caught Amelle's attention was just how busy it was. The air smelled as if a bakery somewhere had exploded, the sweet sugary scent of cakes and sweet breads sending Amelle's mouth watering. She'd never had a bad meal in Highever, and she doubted that was going to change anytime soon.
While Highever had never been a particularly placid, sleepy town, the streets buzzed with activity that appeared at first glance to be positively manic; one cart loaded with reams upon reams of blue and silver bunting rolled by, passing another laden with more hothouse flowers than Amelle had seen in the whole of her life, and yet another carrying heavy wooden crates covered in foreign stamps, all three pulled by donkeys entirely unimpressed with the commotion. At least two dozen industrious souls were in the town square, decorating it with the very silver and blue bunting that had just trundled by, one harried young woman standing in the midst of the madness bemoaning the daffodils planted in the square.
"The flowers clash against the silver," she cried, "we can't have the silver, it clashes with the daffodils!"
"Cousland crest's these colors," a grizzled, older man said, shouldering a roll of blue fabric. "And daffodils're the lady's favorite flowers. She donated the bulbs for the square herself."
"But they clash!" the young woman wailed. From within the Griffon Playhouse across the way there came the strains of what sounded suspiciously like a brass band tuning up to practice. And at the sharp, discordant cacophony pouring through open doors and windows, the woman's evident frustration ratcheted even higher; she spun and sent a glare in the offending direction while the older man hid his chuckle behind a cough.
"Take it up with Miz Elinora, Minny," he returned over the noise with a shrug, likely knowing full well nobody would be taking anything up with the governor's wife.
They rode on past the square to the stables, which were lacking any extra ornamentation—so far, anyway—and dismounted. A ginger dwarf came out from the stable's shadows, recognizing Varric immediately. He was intensely freckled and broad-chested, wearing a long, leather apron, holding a pair of copper tongs in hand.
"About damned time," he said on a gravelly bark of laughter, clapping Varric hard on the back. Varric winced, rotating his shoulder once, but the other dwarf took no notice. "A few storms rolled through, figured they slowed you down."
"Yeah," Varric admitted with a nod, "we ran into a little…" he slanted a look Amelle's way. "A little weather."
"When's your ship leave?"
"A few days yet," Varric replied. "We'll have some time for a little sightseeing." Here, he turned to Amelle and Fenris. "Hawke, this is Orlin. I've told you about him. Orlin, Hawke."
"Ah, yes. He who'll be watching over our horses awhile," Amelle said, stepping forward and extending her hand. Orlin dropped the tongs with a clatter and captured her hand in both of his. Heavily calloused with curls of ginger hair on his knuckles, Amelle couldn't help but feel like she was shaking hands with an exceptionally friendly and enthusiastic red bear.
"So you're Hawke," he said, chuckling as he pumped her arm. "Old Varric's definitely told me about you. Never quite able to get away when y'all come into town, too much work to do, but Varric's told me all about you. Hear you're a hell of a healer. That's good work. Solid work. People're always comin' down sick."
Amelle blinked, sending Varric a quick glance. "That they are," she agreed, somewhat adrift in the conversation. How much had Varric told? Not everything, she was sure, but— "No shortage of work, that's for certain," she said, finally.
"So, uh, Orlin," Varric said, deftly sliding between them and extricating Amelle's hand from Orlin's grip just as deftly. Hiding her hand behind her back, Amelle flexed her fingers and shook out her hand; Orlin didn't have any trouble with his grip, that was for damned sure.
"How about we get these horses settled?" Varric went on. "The Rivaini's coming along too—she'll be here later."
"Think she'll finally sell me that cherry gelding of hers?"
With a laugh, Varric shook his head and said, "I think you've got a better chance of getting her to sell you her own skin." He shot Amelle a look. "Hawke, you and the elf see about some rooms. I'll catch up with Orlin here, and you come and get me when you're done."
The look in his eyes spoke volumes: Please, please come and get me when you're done.
"Y'know," Orlin said, stooping to pick up his tongs, dusting them off against his thigh, "you're lucky you reached town today. Expecting a hell of a crowd rest of the week." At Varric and Amelle's blank looks, he added, "Elinora Cousland's nameday. Highever does it up big every year."
"I don't think we've ever been in town for it," Amelle said, glancing Varric's way.
He shook his head. "No, pretty sure I'd remember that."
"Not the sort of thing anyone forgets," Orlin told them. "The lady likes coming home for the festivities, and Highever likes to deliver."
Varric blinked once, and in that tiny span of time, a thousand puzzle pieces fell into place with a nearly audible click. He blinked again, shooting Amelle a barely perceptible glance. "Lots of people, huh?"
"Highever's packed stem to stern every year."
"Festivities?"
"Far as I know, even the chantry takes a few days off."
Varric darted another quick glance her way. "Sounds like fun," he said, arching an exceptionally pointed eyebrow her way.
"It is," Orlin agreed, oblivious. "You've never been to Highever 'till you've been around for Miz Elinora's nameday. Better than First Day, Wintersend, and Satinalia all together." He chuckled, rocking back on his heels and hooking his thumbs in his apron. "The lady knows how to throw a party, that's the truth."
Varric was nodding slowly throughout this speech. "Sounds it." And then he slung one arm around Orlin's shoulders and steered him into the stables while the grooms helped unload the horses. His voice drifted back a moment before the two disappeared from sight entirely: "So, Orlin, why don't you tell me more about these… festivities."
Shaking her head, Amelle adjusted her satchel and turned to find Fenris watching her intently, his expression inscrutable. She lifted her eyebrows in tacit invitation, that he might tell her what was on his mind. He closed his eyes and shook his head, silently declining. It was hardly a surprise, but still Amelle dropped her gaze to the buckles on her satchel, fiddling needlessly with them—it was easy enough to hide the pang of disappointment, harder for her to ignore it.
But then, once they were halfway down the street to the hotel, Highever Arms, Fenris tipped his head towards hers and said in a low tone, "Such festivities would likely tip the balance into chaos."
"The thought occurred to me," Amelle murmured back as they walked, ignoring the way the low timbre of Fenris' voice sent something pleasant chasing down her spine. "And if it's such that even the chantry takes time off…"
"All the easier for… certain transactions to be executed without notice."
Amelle cast a look over her shoulder, back at the stables. "That hadn't escaped my attention either."
#
It was, Fenris decided, entirely unsurprising. He'd wondered how the Archon had planned to proceed with a fraudulent—to say nothing of illegal—sale; he'd counted on the man's ego to play a part in the matter, but even taking that sizable factor into consideration, it simply hadn't made sense. The leader of the Imperium hadn't ascended to the position on charm and kindness; he was ruthless and cunning, and above all, intelligent.
It was little more than a shell game, played on a larger scale, for higher stakes—wait until the prying eyes of authority were distracted before employing sleight of hand to win the game.
Fenris had no doubt Varric knew precisely how a shell game worked. He had no doubt the dwarf's plan was sound. But the problem with a shell game—any shell game—was that it was fundamentally unwinnable, unless you were the one holding the shells. And Fenris wasn't convinced they were the ones holding the shells.
And yet, the very advantage the Archon was going to employ—this fete—could potentially work for them as well.
Potentially.
"You've been quiet," Hawke said as they strode in silence along Highever's main thoroughfare, a quietly-bustling tree-dotted street lined with shops of every stripe. Even the saloon looked respectable. "More so than usual," she added.
"Have I?"
"I don't think you said three words together from when we broke camp to when we hit Highever."
Fenris' reply was more silence as he frowned. Hawke breathed a laugh—a surprising response.
"Yes, just like that," she said.
After a moment of struggling to find the words, the ones he finally settled on were wholly inadequate. "I find myself concerned."
This time, Hawke owned the silence. "Ah," she finally said. "That."
"Yes. That." They walked a few steps before he went on to add, "In light of…" he looked over his shoulder at the townspeople still decorating the square, "certain developments, some aspects of Varric's plan are… less worrisome than they might otherwise have been. That said, I fear there are elements you have not given all due consideration."
"Such as?"
They stepped into the shade cast by a tall building—the inn—and Fenris stepped around to face Hawke. He leaned close, his voice no less fierce for lowering it. "The Archon will not be so sanguine about this, should it work, should you acquire mines he doubtless already counts as his. Do not fool yourself into thinking it is the chantry you must fear. It is the Archon."
She did not patronize him, as he'd feared. Nor did she argue with him, which he'd also feared. In fact, Hawke did none of the things Fenris was certain she'd do upon hearing his words. Instead, she pursed her lips and stared down at the tips of her boots for a very long moment.
"You think he'd try to find me," she said, still looking down.
"I think—" I fear "—he will hunt you until he does."
Hawke raised her eyes to meet his. A horse-drawn cart clacked by, heavy with hay-bales, the driver shouting a greeting at one of the passerby, but she did not startle; instead, her lips pulled into a smile the quality of which he could not quite identify.
"And what if I told you I had already considered that consequence?"
Fenris exhaled a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. "I… would have to confess my relief."
Now the smile's quality turned vaguely amused, almost privately so. "Confess away, then, Fenris."
Blood warmed his cheeks suddenly; the tone of her voice conspired with the curve at her lips, and suddenly they stood too close, and yet not nearly close enough. Fenris coughed suddenly, stepping away from Hawke and towards the inn. "Then I am relieved," he said, looking up at the large hotel—Highever Arms was nearly Kinloch Hold's match for grandeur. "But I am not fool enough to believe awareness alone will be sufficient."
"Well, no," she replied, falling into step beside him. "It so happens we're sneaky, too."
At his glare, Hawke allowed herself a chuckle, then apologized. "I'm sorry. I don't want you to think I'm not… taking this seriously, or that I haven't given all due consideration to the many, many ways this could go horribly sideways. I am. And I have. But at the end of the day, it's more important to me that they don't get the lyrium mines, than whether or not I do. And, at the end of that same day, I trust Varric."
"With your life?"
There wasn't so much as a breath of hesitation on her reply. "With my life."
The certainty in her answer probably ought to have reassured him; instead, Fenris found himself… troubled by it, by the fact Hawke would trust anyone—anyone—so implicitly. Granted, she had known the dwarf far longer—and knew him far better—than Fenris did, but it had also long been Fenris' experience that anyone could be bought. Everyone had a price. That Hawke was so certain of Varric's loyalty… was a concept entirely foreign to him.
"And you truly believe he can… hide you?" he asked, taking no pains to hide the doubt in his tone.
She didn't reply right away; in fact, it took nearly a full minute for Hawke to gather her words. "I know what I have seen Varric accomplish in the past. I know his work, and I know it's good." She narrowed her eyes thoughtfully as she looked at him, and prickling, uncomfortable heat spiked a path up his spine, blooming at the nape of his neck. "I won't ask you to trust Varric," she finally said, her voice so low he fought the urge to lean closer to hear her. "I only ask that you trust me."
Fenris realized, suddenly, uncomfortably, that he did.
The epiphany was still haunting him later, after they'd settled into their rooms. After he'd washed days of sweat and grime and river-stink from his skin. After he'd let his weight sink into the soft warmth of feathers and eiderdown, his heavy head resting upon a pillow for the first time since Kinloch Hold.
It was not a realization he was particularly at ease with, but it was one that had been creeping in the shadows around him for some time now. And perhaps it had been the moment when they'd faced the Archon's riders—together—after Fenris had battled his own doubts and fears, his own dreaded certainties that hadn't been certainties at all, in the end.
Hawke had stood by him when no one else would have.
Her words rang through his memory as he lay upon the bed, hands laced behind his head, watching the midday sun pour unrelentingly through the wide windows, catching motes and casting sparse shadows: "We have only free men here. Fenris is one such free man."
A free man. Words he had never dared think, much less utter, and this woman, this mage, had all but shouted them at the very people who would have brought him back to Danarius without compunction.
Yes, he trusted her. Whatever shades of uncertainty had been lingering before, they were well and truly exorcised now, and if Hawke believed Varric's plan would protect her, then Fenris would do all that was within his power to make sure it did.
