Dinner was the hottest, most filling meal any of them had enjoyed since Kinloch Hold—lamb roasted with rosemary and fennel with carrots slathered in herbed butter and for dessert, bread pudding studded with dried fruit and smothered in a warm whiskey sauce. The fare was such that conversation slowed during the meal, everyone more interested in eating than talking.
In truth, Fenris had never eaten so well as he had since meeting Hawke. Even their meals around the campfire had been pleasant, augmented usually with rum from Isabela's flask, or some extra, hidden provision Hawke or Varric had picked up along the way.
Perhaps that was the difference between traveling alone and as part of a group. Even now, despite the lack of color upon Hawke's cheek, with her meal eaten and a glass of sherry in hand, she still spoke animatedly, still laughed, still joked with Isabela and Varric—and himself. When Fenris had started on this trip, Varric and Isabela's tolerance for him had been only that: tolerance. Now, though, they included him in their jests. He was… a part of something—a sensation entirely new to him.
Once they were all contentedly full of food, drink, and conversation, they all four walked through the hotel's lobby and pushed through the double doors out into the moonlit evening. The air carried with it a salty briskness as it blew in off the sea; Hawke pulled her shawl more tightly around her shoulders, while Isabela turned into the breeze, smiling as she closed her eyes, tipping her head back and drawing in a long, deep breath.
"Only a few more days, Rivaini," Varric said, "and we'll be on the open water." He had, of course, read her expression with expert precision—but he didn't sound entirely happy about the voyage himself. "A few more days followed by an eternity of seasickness."
"Lucky us," Hawke said, clapping a hand on Varric's shoulder.
"Luck," the dwarf echoed darkly, shaking his head. "That isn't what I'd call it."
Isabela shot them both an exasperated glare. "Oh, would you both stop your bellyaching? You're ruining the moment."
"Bellyaching," Hawke muttered. "Nice choice of words."
"You know what I mean," Isabela retorted, flicking a hand dismissively.
Fenris realized too late his expression must have revealed his curiosity, for Hawke's expression turned rueful. "Seasickness," she supplied. "I get wretchedly seasick. But at least," she added with a sigh and a pointed look Varric's way, "I'm not alone."
Varric's expression turned pained. "Could we maybe not talk about the days upon days of misery waiting for us?"
"My apologies," Hawke replied, sounding appropriately contrite. "What would you like to do instead?" Then, sending Fenris a conspirator's smile, she added under her breath, "As if I need to ask."
"Figure we'll find a card game in town," the dwarf answered, cocking his head in the direction of a saloon down the street.
"What a surprise," Fenris drawled, his utterance catching the dwarf entirely by surprise.
"So the broody elf's got a sarcastic streak."
"And yet he makes a valid point all the same," Hawke added. "It's been an age since you've been able to fleece anyone."
"Hope that's not a complaint, Hawke. It's these winnings that have been keeping feather pillows under that pretty head of yours."
"Not at all, not at all, perish the thought."
"Thinking about joining us, kitten?"
"Thinking about it," Hawke replied, sending Fenris a sidelong grin.
Despite all that had transpired since then, he'd not forgotten her suggestion they attempt to play—and win—against Isabela and Varric. He sent her a querying look of his own as they ambled along the street.
"Not tonight," she murmured, leaning close enough that her breath stirred his hair. He suppressed a shiver. "The most important rule of diamondback is to watch the other players—"
"More than you watch your own cards," he finished for her. Hawke's answering smile was warm and broad, and he found being on the receiving end of it—indeed, being its sole recipient—quickened something inside him.
"Exactly that. So tonight we'll watch."
"Do you not play regularly with them?"
"Haven't in a while, unfortunately. Not since…" Hawke paused in thought, steps slowing. "Not since before Ostagar." She shrugged, her expression turning momentarily inscrutable. "Not since before our meeting, at least."
"Very well. Allow us to… observe, then."
"Sensible of you."
A prickling across his skin urged him to lift his eyes—to find Hawke's gaze settled on him.
"Yes?" he asked, suddenly wary of the gentle quirk at her lips.
"You were smiling," she said. "Mind if I ask why?"
"I was not aware I required a reason."
Varric and Isabela exchanged a look. The frequency with which they did had become nearly alarming.
"Good food, good company?" Hawke asked him a low voice as Highever bustled around them.
"That is… accurate," he replied, offering Hawke his arm. Surprise rippled across her features, but it was a mild brand of it. She accepted his arm, resting her own in the crook of his elbow as they walked along the main street, darkness pushed back by flickering gas lamps lining either side of the street. The city's activity had lessened somewhat since that morning, but the air still thrummed with anticipation as couples walked along, arm in arm, admiring the newly-hung decorations.
They found a tavern in short order, as if Varric and Isabela both possessed a sixth sense for locating such establishments. It was cheerfully loud; at one end of the establishment a cluster of not-quite-drunk patrons had gathered around a man playing a piano, their voices off-key as they sang along with the tinny, plinking notes. Varric claimed a small table in the corner, pulling a chair out for Isabela with a flourish. She shot him an unreadable—and yet still obviously amused—look before sitting in a swish of skirts.
Feeling as if some sort of precedent had been set, Fenris reached for a chair to do the same for Hawke, but the warm weight of her hand on his stopped him.
"Varric's just showing off," she murmured, the dimple in her cheek showing itself.
"Even so," he replied, pulling the chair out anyway. "I am not entirely devoid of manners."
She sat, still looking distractingly amused. "I don't believe I ever implied you were."
After some friendly bickering over who would shuffle and deal—and whose cards they'd use (not Isabela's)—it was Varric who handled the deck, cards blurring from one broad hand to the other and then flicking forward as he nimbly dealt them their cards.
As it was a friendly game, bets were low, which gave Fenris an ideal opportunity to pay more attention to the other players than his cards. After several hands, Fenris came to realize several things, the first of which was that Isabela was a gifted bluffer who showed so many tells it was near impossible to tell which tells were tells and which were diversions—she twirled her hair during good hands and bad; she chewed her lip; she leant forward, putting her cleavage on display, but never with any sort of consistency. It was a different sort of tactic than ones he'd seen employed by other players, but no less effective for that. Second was a deeper understanding and appreciation for Varric's ability to bluff nervelessly, very seldom trading out cards and choosing instead to play whatever he held; it was no surprise this was how they'd been bankrolling themselves. Third was that Hawke watched Fenris nearly as closely as Fenris watched Hawke—closely enough that she made him far too conscious of his own tells, which very likely resulted in him revealing them all the more clearly.
Which could very well have been the whole point.
They were several hands in, a modest spill of coppers piled the middle of the table, glinting warmly under the saloon's lanternlight—no one had come out as a clear winner yet, which told Fenris the others were observing him as closely as he had them. He lifted his wineglass and took a long drink; as he set the glass down a flicker of movement caught his eye—Hawke, winding a short lock of hair around one finger. When she realized what she was doing, she dropped her hand to her lap, shooting the offending limb a disgusted look.
Not only a tell, but one she was aware of. He wondered what it meant—a good hand, or a bad one?
Before he could give the question much more thought, however, three newcomers had approached their table—two men, one fair-haired, the other dark, and a woman with brown hair pulled back, save for tendrils escaping to curl at her temples.
"I do love a game of diamondback, but I always thought you preferred Wicked Grace, 'Bela." Silver flashed at her breast, beneath her leather coat; her companions wore similar badges—etched, Fenris realized, with a griffon in profile. Grey Wardens. Which meant—
Silence reigned around the card table. For that matter, the whole saloon had gone quiet. Next to Fenris, Hawke blinked, but said nothing. That was possibly because Elinora Cousland, daughter of Highever, Grey Warden Commander, and the single most powerful woman in Ferelden, wife to the single most powerful man in Ferelden, stood at their card table, smiling at Isabela.
"Isabela," the woman drawled, bracing one arm across the top of a high-backed chair. "It's been a while."
Across from him, Isabela smiled. "Long time, no see, sweet thing."
This time it was Fenris' turn to start and stare at Isabela. Sweet thing?
"Isabela," Hawke managed, faintly, "is there something you haven't told us?"
"Oh, I'm sure that list is far longer than she'll ever admit to. Forgive me my horrible manners." The newcomer smiled and extended her hand to Hawke. Fenris took in the woman's stance, her body language, but her limbs were loose and her manner easygoing. Confident, but surprisingly grounded. "Elinora Cousland, at your service. Allow me to introduce my colleagues, Nathaniel Howe and—well, everybody just calls Anders Anders. I do believe I've forgotten his full name, if ever indeed I knew it."
"She isn't being serious, of course," Anders interjected smoothly. Too smoothly, Fenris thought. The man's dark blue suit was perfectly pressed, revealing no signs at all of travel. A gold hoop winked at his ear. His hands looked too smooth, the fingernails too clean.
"That all said, I think—if Anders' reports are to be believed, at any rate—"
"Which is not always the case," the darker Warden—Howe—added wryly, a sentiment that made it difficult for Fenris to dislike the man.
Anders took evident offense to Howe's words, grimacing comically and rolling his eyes before tipping his hat at Hawke and sending her a too-familiar smile that lasted a heartbeat too long for Fenris' taste. Hawke's own smile was polite but… restrained, nowhere as warm or as wide as Fenris had seen in the past.
"Then," Cousland continued, "I believe you may have already met."
"Amelle Hawke," Hawke said, shaking the taller woman's hand. "And… yes, I believe that's a fair assessment. Our encounter was…" she trailed off, glancing at Isabela and Varric. "I think it'd be fair to call it, 'brief but memorable'?"
Varric coughed. "That's about the long and short of it."
It was then Fenris recalled there was a sizable Warden outpost in Amaranthine. The others had referenced some incident there—an incident involving two Grey Wardens—and while Fenris' curiosity had grown with every mention, he'd never asked what had happened.
"My report, I'll have you know," Anders replied, "was entirely mostly accurate." He sent a knowing look Hawke's way, shifting slightly closer to her.
Hawke ducked her head and laughed, shaking her head. A hint of color warmed her pale cheeks and Fenris grew less curious about Amaranthine by the second. Highever, too, began to lose its appeal.
"You must be Varric Tethras," Elinora Cousland said, relinquishing Hawke's hand. "I was quite fond of The Bard and the Blade, you know. Your reputation precedes you. It's a pleasure." She turned, then, to address Fenris, confusion flickering briefly across her face. He sat still, watching the woman's expression as she struggled to place him; though he wasn't inclined to like one of her two companions, her cordiality was nothing less than genuine. Nor did it escape his notice that the woman hadn't ignored or dismissed him outright simply by virtue of his being an elf.
"This is Fenris," Hawke supplied, cutting in smoothly and placing a hand upon his shoulder. "He only recently joined us." The light touch pulled his musings away from anything related to Amaranthine—or Anders' too-familiar smiles—centering them instead on the warmth of her fingers through his shirt. Her thumb rubbed a small circle over his collarbone; with every circuit the tension in Fenris' spine and neck slowly released. Then Hawke spoke again, turning his attention back to the conversation at hand. "He was lucky enough to miss that particular… incident."
"Incident," Nathaniel intoned. "That's one way of putting it."
###
Elinora Cousland. Elinora Cousland.
Amelle knew it was one thing that she was in Highever—that was only to be expected, given it was her nameday they were celebrating—but it was something altogether different that she was here, standing at their card table and looking like she belonged there.
And Isabela knew her?
"So tell us, Isabela, when exactly were you going to mention you knew Elinora Cousland?"
"Our paths crossed a few times," Isabela said airily.
"Please," she said, "just Elinora. I start to break out into hives if people Cousland or Theirin me to death. In any case, I wasn't really anybody special at the time, believe me. It just so happened I… required specific sort of assistance and was directed to request the aid of a… particular pirate who frequented a particular establishment."
Isabela's expression turned to one of fond reminiscence. "Ah, yes. The Pearl. I miss that place."
Amelle twisted back in her chair to gape properly at Isabela. The Pearl? The Pearl? "You met Elinora Cousland at The Pearl?" She slid her eyes to Varric, who looked not in the least bit surprised at this revelation. But this was Varric, which could have meant he already knew the whole story and then some, or he was only pretending to know and biding his time until he could pull details out of Isabela later.
"I have it on good authority they miss you, too." Elinora gestured to a few chairs scattered at empty tables. "May we? I'd hate to interrupt."
Varric waved a hand. "Nothing but a friendly game is all. Make yourselves at home." He chuckled, gathering the cards up. "Which probably won't be too difficult for you, now that I think about it."
The three Wardens pulled chairs up to the table as the rest of them scooted around to make room, resulting in Fenris' chair pressing so close to hers their thighs brushed. Though brief, the contact—such as it was through her layers of skirts—sent something jumping in Amelle's blood, enough to distract her while also leaving her torn between pulling away and to pressing closer.
"Forgive me," he murmured.
"No need to apologize," she replied, her voice suddenly hoarse. She shifted in her chair. Their legs brushed again. Her breath caught. Again.
On Amelle's other side, Isabela waved the barkeep over. "Another round for us, and whatever our friends are drinking," she told him before looking back at Elinora. "I don't get to Denerim quite as often as I used to."
Elinora and Howe both ordered whiskey, Anders an ale. "Put it on my tab," she added, nodding up at the barkeep before turning her attention back to Isabela. "I've heard as much."
Looking entirely too satisfied by half, Isabela propped her forearm on the table and smiled. "Keeping tabs on me, sweet thing?"
"Not exactly," she replied, her expression reflecting the type of amusement exposure Isabela's presence and influence tended to cultivate. "It's more that you have a knack for making waves wherever you go." She paused, grinning at the unintentional joke. "So to speak. It's been quiet—in Denerim, at least—so I can only assume you've not graced our fair city with your very singular presence in some time."
"So tell me, did you bring that big, strapping husband of yours along?" Isabela waggled her eyebrows lasciviously. "Give any further thought to my generous suggestion?"
"Alas, some last minute business detained him. Alistair expects to be in on the first train tomorrow. And as to the second question—the answer hasn't changed." Whatever conversation Elinora and Isabela were referring to, the latter settled back in her chair, looking both satisfied and unsurprised.
"I apologize for butting in," Amelle said. "But if you don't mind my asking, what sort of assistance was it you required from Isabela?"
The question made Elinora blink, and then shrug. "I wanted—more to the point, I believed I needed to learn how to duel. I was told of a raider who was unsurpassed in the art. I found her—"
"In a brothel, evidently," Amelle interjected, taking no pains whatsoever to hide her amusement. The look Fenris shot her was a mix of surprise and curiosity. She gave him a helpless shrug. "I'm… not entirely unfamiliar with The Pearl."
Elinora laughed, smile widening. "Yes, in a brothel. And over course I'd never been in such a place before."
"Nor had your husband-to-be," Anders interjected, before shooting Amelle a conspirator's grin. He certainly hadn't changed since the last time she'd seen him or Howe. Still flirtatious, still charming, and still very much the type of man her mother would have warned her away from, mage or not. Nathaniel Howe was still very much Anders' foil—straightforward and direct, with humor that tended towards the sly and subtle. An interesting pair of companions for the Warden Commander. "As I understand the tale," Anders continued, taking no pains to hide his mirth, "the gentleman asked if it was the sort of place that made broth."
"Never broth," Isabela tossed back with a wink. "Though I do recall one patron who could do the most fascinating things with lightning. They still talk about him."
At that comment, Anders squirmed with discomfiture that could have been genuine, but Amelle wasn't sure—that was another problem with Anders: Amelle had a damnably difficult time reading him. Not like—well. Not like some people, anyway.
"Lightning?" he managed around a cough, taking a long pull from his mug. "Wonders indeed will never cease."
Beside him, Nathaniel smirked into his drink. "Indeed not."
"Rivaini," Varric drawled, shifting the subject while still managing to sound undeniably wounded, "Words cannot hope to convey my disappointment I am only hearing about this story now."
"Oh, but if I tell you all the good ones, Fuzzy," she riposted, "there'll be nothing left to keep you hanging around."
"In any event," Elinora went on, "after a pitiful showing at a game of Wicked Grace, the duelist told me I couldn't be taught."
"You had plenty of other skills," Isabela pointed out, and there was something… lurking in her voice, something teasing and hidden. "You didn't need mine."
Elinora took a sip of whiskey. "And it turned out you were right."
"You needn't sound so surprised."
She paused, turning the glass this way and that before admitting, "Rendon Howe was a formidable opponent."
Amelle knew a very little about the man to whom Cousland referred. Lothering had been dealing with its own problem at the time, and Amelle hadn't exactly had the time to keep up with events beyond those covered in the local press. And Lothering's press had been far more interested in how a farming community would overcome a blight and avoid starving through the winter. Her eyes went to Nathaniel, whose expression was patently neutral.
"Wait," she blurted, "Rendon—"
"Howe," Nathaniel finished for her. "He was my father."
"Our working relationship," Elinora explained, sending Nathaniel a rueful smile, "did not have the smoothest start."
Anders gave a snort. "An understatement if ever there was. I think everyone at the Keep was waiting for these two to call pistols at dawn and be done with it."
"Anders exaggerates," Elinora replied, waving a hand. "In any event, there's something I'm rather curious about, Isabela—what brings you all to Highever?"
"What?" Varric asked, his expression as open and honest as Amelle had ever seen it, not that she believed it for a minute. "Maybe we're here to enjoy the celebration."
"If you were hoping to appeal to my ego, Mister Tethras—"
"Varric, please—if we're going to be on a first-name basis with the Commander of the Grey."
"Very well. Varric. If you were hoping to appeal to my ego, I'm afraid you'll find yourself disappointed."
"We're passing through to Kirkwall," Amelle offered. "Our ship doesn't sail for a few days yet, so we've decided to enjoy the festivities."
"I'm glad to hear it," Elinora replied. "I have it on good authority the festivities are indeed very festive." She nudged Anders, her expression arch. "Rumor has it there may be fireworks."
"Never put stock in rumors, Elinora," Anders said, taking another long drink from his mug.
"Evidently he only shows off for the brothels," Nathaniel added.
"I'd be more inclined to believe that if he weren't such a willing show-off every other day of the week," Elinora countered before casting a look around the table, meeting their eyes one by one. "I confess I'm a little disappointed. I'd rather hoped Isabela's presence in our fair city indicated some level of skullduggery or shenanigans afoot."
Fenris started and stared. "You hoped?"
Elinora looked over at Fenris, surprised. "You do speak. Only when you've something to say, I imagine. I'm sure I don't know anybody like that."
"And I'm sure," Nathaniel said, rather pointedly, "not everybody has a taste for your brand of humor."
"In any case," Elinora went on, turning back to Fenris, "yes. I had hoped something was brewing. It's my nameday, after all. Highever does love its celebrations, but sometimes it all gets…"
"A little too formal?" Isabela suggested. "Just a little too…predictable?"
A beat of silence passed and Elinora looked at Isabela, her eyes widening. "You are up to something."
Isabela didn't reply; she only took a long drink from her glass, draining it of rum, her eyes sliding over to meet Varric's. A thousand unspoken words passed between them, the silent conversation ending only when Varric shrugged and looked at Amelle.
"What do you say, Hawke?"
Amelle's heart gave a sudden, hard thump in her chest; beside her, Fenris tensed. She swallowed to fight the sudden dryness overtaking her mouth. "Are you suggesting what I think you're suggesting?"
"You've got to admit, could be useful to have an insider's perspective."
As true as Varric's words were, and as deeply as he trusted his perspective and judgment, Amelle couldn't help balking.
"If it's any reassurance," Elinora interjected evenly, "I'm reasonably confident Isabela wouldn't have given anything away if this supposed skullduggery were very illegal."
"You…" Amelle began, trailing off and shaking her head. "You're the head of the Grey Wardens."
"I am." Elinora narrowed her eyes a moment and nodded once to herself. "Ah, I see. It's not that I am an unknown quantity, but rather I am one a little too well known."
"Given what we're dealing with, Hawke," Isabela murmured, "I think this is an ally we might need."
She considered this. Fenris had already made clear his misgivings and concerns. They were on the verge of potentially making an incredibly powerful enemy. That worried Amelle more than the idea of having lyrium mines put into her name. She chewed her lip a long moment and looked at Fenris; his expression was impassive and inscrutable.
"All right," she said finally. "But I imagine we'd be better off talking somewhere a bit more private."
Elinora nodded. "I know just the place."
###
Cousland House had been on the same piece of property for generations. Its first iteration had been a simple cabin, hewn together by Mather Cousland's bare hands; when that had been destroyed in a fire, the Couslands rebuilt to accommodate an ever-growing family. Much of that family, Amelle knew, was dead, including Fergus Cousland's wife and young son. Though the land had recovered in most places, and was still recovering in others, some scars would remain forever.
The pristine clapboard house stood just on the edge of town, surrounded by pines and encircled by a tall wrought-iron fence. A light flickered in one of the second story windows.
"That will be Fergus, waiting up," Elinora told them as the horse-drawn cab trundled its way up the gravel-lined drive. Concern tightened briefly at the corners of her mouth before she shook it off and hopped out the very moment the horses came to a stop. "I'll show you to the library, if you'll excuse me a moment to say goodnight," she said, unlocking and pushing open the heavy front door. "Then we'll have all the privacy we need."
Inside, the house was sparely lit—only enough that anyone coming in had light by which to avoid killing themselves. But the low-light did nothing whatsoever to conceal the high ceilings and polished wood floors or the plush furniture made of carved wood and soft cushions. Fresh flowers stood in delicate vases propped on tall, ornate tables beneath family portraits hung on the walls.
The room Elinora led them to was comfortably furnished, the shining floor covered with a thick, colorful rug woven in hues of blue and grey. Against one wall was a table that held several cut-crystal bottles of liquor. Isabela made a beeline to that end of the room and began investigating, pulling the stoppers out of each bottle and sniffing experimentally. Faced with walls upon walls of books, Varric began perusing the shelves—more than likely looking for his own name—while Nathaniel took a seat and Anders set about to starting a fire in the hearth. Once she was satisfied they were settled, Elinora excused herself, closing the doors behind her. At the soft click, Amelle went to one of the tall windows and looked out; it was too dark to see much of anything but the moon and her own reflection.
Her reflection and Fenris'.
"Tell me, do you trust this woman?" he asked, his voice low.
She pulled her attention from the tenor of his voice, which never failed to send a shiver across her skin, and shifted it towards the words he was saying. He had a point, and it was no surprise at all he was sharing whatever thoughts he harbored.
"It's never a bad thing to have an ally in your back pocket," she replied, just as softly.
"You are so certain she will be an ally."
That was the real question, wasn't it? Amelle looked at Fenris from the corner of her eye. "You're concerned with the part of the plan that leaves me owning the mines."
A twitch at his lips was the closest thing to a smile she could hope for, given the circumstances. "It is the only part of what we are doing that is truly questionable."
Isabela appeared between them, a crystal tumbler in either hand. "If you two are going to stare out at the scenery together, you're going to need a drink," she said, pressing the glasses into their hands.
"It's too dark to see much of anything," Fenris countered.
"So you're off in a dark corner together not looking at the scenery?" She shrugged and turned to go. "Can't say I don't approve of that."
Amelle put her hand out, catching her friend's arm. "…Isabela?"
"Oh, kitten, this had better be fast. I put my drink down to come see you." But she moved closer when Amelle tugged.
"Are you sure this is wise?" Amelle asked, lowering her voice to a whisper. "Everything else aside, Elinora Cousland is still a Grey Warden."
"And you're both wondering," Isabela replied, her own voice low, "whether we've got any business sharing plans of dubious legality with such authorities."
"We are," Fenris answered.
The mirth melted away from Isabela's face, leaving her as sincere as Amelle had ever seen her. "If I thought for even a single moment this would result in our—or my—incarceration, I wouldn't be here." Isabela sent her a slightly lopsided smile. "If nothing else, I think you can trust my ability to avoid… problematic situations."
Amelle allowed herself a soft chuckle as she shook her head. "Isabela. Only you would refer to incarceration as a problematic situation."
Fenris narrowed his eyes, possibly searching for even the slightest hint of an untruth. "Then you trust her."
"I do," Isabela answered. "And she's a name on a very short list. There aren't many people from my past who greet me with smiles, Hawke. You've known me long enough to know just how true that is."
Amelle breathed in deeply and exhaled through her teeth. "Yes," she murmured. "I do know that much."
"The fact of the matter is, she can help us. As it is, we stand an excellent chance of making a very unpleasant enemy. Yes, we're going to be careful and no, none of us would do anything to endanger ourselves unduly, but a little extra protection—a little insurance—is never a bad idea. I think you both know that as well as I do."
Later, after Elinora had returned and drinks were poured, it was Varric who explained what they'd found, before producing the legal paperwork they'd pulled off the Tevinter riders and handing it over.
She read in silence.
As she read on, Amelle slowly realized the strangest part about being in the company of Elinora Cousland was the woman herself. She possessed an impressive demeanor, sure and confident, but at ease in that confidence. As if she knew precisely the best way to put people at ease around her. And then Amelle remembered that above all else, the woman dealt with politicians and dignitaries, both in her capacity as a Grey Warden and as the governor's wife.
"So what you're saying," Elinora murmured, still frowning at the Tevinter documents, "is that the… not just any mage, but arguably the most powerful man in the Imperium is trying to buy Ferelden mines?"
"Illegally," Varric added.
"And you lot," interjected Anders, looking far too amused—overjoyed was a better descriptor—over the whole thing. "Are trying to beat him to it."
"Before he learns you've killed his people," Cousland finished.
"That's about the long and short of it," Amelle said, willing her hands to remain still in her lap, begging her fingers not to pluck at each other like they so dearly wanted.
Elinora sat back in her chair, steepling her fingers. "It's a risky plan. Particularly if the contact you're dealing with is expecting you to be Archon representatives and there isn't a single mage among you."
The quality of silence followed was such that Elinora's eyebrows lifted towards her hairline. "Ah. Or perhaps there is a mage among you." She looked from face to face, silently assessing. She dismissed Isabela and Varric immediately—she knew one personally, and the other couldn't have been a mage even if he'd wanted it to be so—but her gaze lingered on Amelle and Fenris.
"Elinora," Anders said, his tone gently chiding. She turned to grin at him.
"Oh, come now. You can hardly fault me for trying to guess—"
"Even so."
She turned back to Amelle and Fenris, addressing them both. "Well, whichever one of you it is, your secret's safe with me. Besides, I hate seeing people carted away during my nameday. Unless they deserve it."
"And you are of the opinion apostates do not… deserve it?" Fenris asked, uncharacteristically hesitant.
She looked squarely at Amelle, eyes alight. "Aha! I knew it was you! I thought perhaps your elf friend, but no, he's already too showy by half, and you do an admirable job of looking normal."
Amelle found she could do little more than gape. Anders, on the other hand, let out an audible sigh.
"You'll have to excuse her," he said, looking pained. "She can't help but treat it as a little… puzzle to be solved."
"In any case, I mean what I said. You're in no danger from me."
Exchanging a quick glance with Fenris, Amelle looked hard at Elinora, searching for some hint of subterfuge, some well-hidden tell that would reveal her as being anything less than perfectly open regarding her words. She chose her words carefully. "You don't… agree with the chantry?"
Elinora made a face, drawing her eyebrows together and wrinkling her nose. "That's putting it far too simply. It's not so much that I don't agree with them in theory. In practice, however, I have a harder time finding their methods to be without fault. There is room for improvement, but entities that have been around for as long as the chantry are very slow to change; often it must be eased upon them gradually and subtly in such a way that they become accustomed to the change before they realize there's been one at all."
Yes, Amelle realized, Elinora Cousland was a politician.
"Trust me," Elinora went on, "were you to decide to make a menace of yourself, I wouldn't be half so cordial." A beat of silence passed. "You… aren't planning to make a menace of yourself, are you?"
"She'd hardly tell you if she were," Nathaniel said, his tone thick with wry amusement.
"In any case, it would appear you have… very nearly everything you need. Deeds, mages…" Elinora sent a pointed look Isabela's way. "An ill-gotten seal."
"I'll have you know I wasn't the one to steal that."
"To your endless disappointment, I'm sure." A beat of silence passed. "Not that I would ever condone such a thing, ever," she added primly. "So, falsified documents, a mage, and a seal. What exactly are you missing?"
"Warm bodies," Varric stated with a shrug.
"There were eight riders," Amelle explained. "And only four of us."
"Four and three make seven," Elinora replied. "Appearances are everything, and that's close enough to eight that it hardly makes a difference."
"Alistair would make eight," Nathaniel pointed out. The very suggestion of the governor playing a part of this little scheme was enough to send the bottom dropping out of Amelle's stomach, but Elinora shook her head.
"No, better we not. I'd rather keep him on standby. Just in case. Besides, he's even more recognizable than I am. That's not an insurmountable problem, but it is a problem all the same."
"I hardly think he'd be glad to hear that," Anders remarked. "He complains as it is how much more fun you get to have than he does."
With a sigh, Elinora looked back at the deeds. "You aren't wrong about that." A few moments passed. "I don't know. We'll see."
"But he's the governor," blurted Amelle. "This isn't exactly…" Legal, she wanted to say. "Dignified."
Anders let out a chortle while Nathaniel's expression turned long-suffering.
"Ah, how much you don't know," Elinora murmured, frowning at the deeds a moment longer before folding them back up and handing the packet over to Varric. "Well, ser dwarf, I'm most definitely intrigued. Why don't I see about putting on a pot of tea, and you tell me just what it is you're planning to do about this? And we—assuming I'm safe to speak for my cohorts—will see just what type of aid we can lend."
