Highever's merriment carried on well into the wee hours. Though they'd lingered on that little bridge, Amelle and Fenris managed to find Isabela and Varric before Anders' fireworks display ended, giving them all ample time to return to the hotel. They'd settled their bill in advance, and their bags were already packed, so there was little fuss meeting Elinora Cousland's private carriage. Moving to the Cousland estate was the wisest move; it allowed greater physical distance between them and the chantry, and afforded a great deal more privacy. Isabela hadn't been terribly keen on placing herself so far from the town center until Varric reminded her Grey Wardens played cards, too.
"Though you might want to consider not cheating when playing against the governor's wife," Varric had told her.
But Isabela had only laughed, saying, "Fuzzy, believe me when I say Elinora's been around for enough rounds of cards to know exactly how I play."
"And how you innuendo, evidently," Varric had replied.
By that hour, "merriment" amounted largely to "inebriated townsfolk stumbling in the middle of the street," which, though amusing, was also an impediment that induced the carriage driver to lead them around Highever's outskirts, avoiding the worst of the celebratory fallout. The estate was warmly-lit when they finally arrived, greeted by both Elinora and her brother, Fergus, who it appeared knew little of his sister's plans, given that he greeted them all as "welcome guests."
Isabela gave a soft snort and Amelle landed a light kick against her ankle.
Despite how pleasant the day had been—and it most certainly had, to say nothing of the evening—it had also been long; Amelle was asleep almost before her head hit the pillow. She dreamed of moonlit ponds, sure hands, and a voice like whiskey and shadow.
She slept remarkably soundly, eventually woken by the scent of bacon and coffee and baking bread tantalizing enough to rouse her from the feather mattress with its impossibly soft sheets and sachet-scented pillows. Hastily she drew a dressing gown over her nightclothes and cautiously picked her way downstairs. The Cousland dining room was cheerfully lit; flickering sconces pushed against the dim early morning light. Varric sat at one end of the impossibly long dining room table, which was already laden with more food than Amelle had ever seen in one sitting. He nursed a steaming cup of coffee, building plans spread out all around him.
"Maker's breath, have you even slept?"
Varric looked up, momentarily startled; almost immediately his features relaxed into an expression far more familiar and at home on his face. "Sometimes the quality of sleep is more important than the quantity," he returned, gesturing with one broad hand at the silver coffee pot, steam issuing from the artfully curved spout. "What about you?" he asked. "Late night for you, too."
"I slept, at least," Amelle said, taking a seat and turning her attention to the silver coffee server as she poured herself a cup. She stirred in cream—Maker's breath, real cream—the only sound in the room the gentle clink of her spoon against the sides of the cup. "Is anyone else up yet?"
"Far as I know, it's just you, me, and the kitchen staff right now. I reckon that'll change sooner or later—probably sooner—but for now, you're the only other person I've seen." He paused a moment, watching her shrewdly before asking: "Why?"
Slowly, Amelle drew her spoon from the cup and set it gently, deliberately, on its saucer. "Elinora Cousland spoke privately with me the other night."
He snorted softly. "Oh, believe me, I'd noticed."
That was hardly a surprise; Varric was nothing if not observant. "You noticed, but didn't say anything about it?"
He shrugged. "Contrary to popular belief, I do know a thing or two about discretion."
"Or you figured you'd pull it out of me over a few drinks?"
"Or that," he conceded with a shrug. "But you came to me first. So," he went on, "what did the esteemed Director of the Grey have to say that wasn't appropriate for our delicate ears?"
Amelle picked up the spoon again, twirling it slowly between her fingers. "She wanted to talk to me about the mines," she replied, before outlining the other woman's proposition. To Varric's credit, his expression remained perfectly neutral.
Once she'd finished, her friend sat back, his brows drawing together in—no, it wasn't quite concern, though perhaps concern's second cousin. "You sure about this, Hawke?" He grimaced. "Sorry. That… came out wrong. I've known you a long time—long enough to know you know your own mind. But I don't want you to do something you'll regret—or resent—later."
The answer came with surprising ease, and as Amelle spoke, she knew deep in her bones every word was true. "I don't know the first damned thing about owning or operating lyrium mines," she admitted. "More to the point, I'm not sure how long I'd be able to keep avoiding the chantry if I owned even a single mine, never mind five." She took a sip of coffee and sighed at the heat as it coursed down her throat. "Yes. I'm sure."
"And you're satisfied Cousland isn't going to try and cheat you?"
"Strange as it may seem, I am." Amelle cradled the cup between her hands, letting it warm her palms. "And Isabela trusts her."
He gestured with his cup before taking a long drink. "This is an excellent point. As we both know, anyone who's got the Rivaini's trust has earned it a few hundred times over." He paused a moment, regarding her closely. "I just want you to be sure."
"I am sure. I'm pretty sure I'm sure, anyway."
Varric nodded and, just like that, the difficult part of the conversation was over. Moving to another part of the table, Amelle plucked a flaky croissant off a silver platter, gesturing with the pastry at the plans Varric had been perusing. "Find anything useful?" she asked, before helping herself to butter and raspberry preserves.
He shrugged. "According to the journals we found on our oh, so very forthcoming Tevinter friends," Varric replied, "the exchange is supposed to take place here" he said, tapping one thick finger against the map.
Elinora walked into the dining room just in time to hear this exchange. "That makes sense," she supplied, peering over Varric's shoulder. "Today's a holiday—the chantry doesn't 'close,' per se, but it is running on a skeleton crew. Administrative staff are all off today. Certain offices will be closed off as well."
"What about the priests and lay sisters?" Amelle asked. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught sight of Fenris silently slipping into the dining room; after meeting her eyes long enough that a blush rose to her cheeks, he gave only the most cursory glance at the newest addition and decided the coffeepot was far more worthy of his attention at the moment.
"They'll all be scattered across Highever," answered Elinora, motioning to a maid for an additional pot of coffee; with the crowd in attendance it was clear they'd need it. "It's a big day for weddings, christenings, blessings—"
Amelle nodded. "Because it's your nameday?"
Something akin to discomfiture settled on her features; she shrugged and looked away, helping herself to an iced sticky bun. "Because it's a day off families might not have had otherwise—"
"And," interjected a new voice, deep and cultured, "seen to be a day of luck. Which my lovely wife is leaving out, to nobody's surprise, I'm sure."
Elinora turned suddenly pink as she shot the newcomer a look exasperation, though fondness filtered through around its uncharitable edges. "Alistair." She cleared her throat. "You're awake."
Amelle looked back sharply at the other man who'd come in, Nathaniel and Anders close behind. She'd only ever seen the governor of Ferelden's likeness in pencil drawings and the occasional daguerrotype—but never in person. He was taller, broader than she'd expected, his handsome face—kind, if perhaps a bit weathered, though he didn't look particularly old—sending a particularly warm smile his wife's way. "Indeed I am. Forgive me my horrible timing, my darling. And the interruption. I do humbly apologize."
"I'm not sure how much I believe you," she riposted, but her smile was warm. Then, addressing the rest of the room, she added, "I've told Alistair of the information you uncovered and he was, ah, rather insistent on aiding the matter any way he could."
"Well," Isabela drawled from the doorway, her voice still husky with sleep, "he has always been a helper. Hasn't he?" she smiled, arching an eyebrow at the Commander of the Grey. "Coffee?"
Her remark resulted in both Elinora and Alistair descending into an awkward, pink-tinged hush. Varric closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose, breathing an almost inaudible, "Rivaini."
After several beats of silence, Elinora coughed. "More on the way."
"You know, somehow I feel like there's a story here," Anders murmured, looking between Isabela, Alistair, and Elinora.
"Indicative of your keen powers of observation, I'm sure," Nathaniel remarked, shooting Anders a sidelong glower. "I'm just as sure it's none of your business."
"Hah. Not that that's ever stopped me bef—"
"We did need an eighth man," Amelle said brightly, eager to change the subject. "Though, you must understand I'm just a little concerned—and perhaps understandably so—you might be easily recognized."
This comment caught the governor's attention, and his resultant grin lent a mischievous, boyish quality to his face. "Oh, you leave that to me. I'm better at going about unnoticed than you might think."
"In any case," Elinora interjected, clearly glad to be back to the matter at hand, "Alistair isn't wrong. It's a popular day for blessings—for a multitude of reasons—which pulls most of the clergy away."
"So who's left behind?" Amelle asked.
"Our mole, ostensibly," Elinora replied. "A few acolytes. Hardly anyone at all."
Alistair went to his wife's side, peering down at the building plans. "As Elinora said, tor the most part the chantry will be open and empty. Some areas will be locked off. Private quarters, most of the clerical offices." He nodded at the room Varric had marked on the plans. "Unless I'm mistaken, I think this area's most commonly used for storage. Or it was last time I was here."
"Stands to reason it won't be locked up tight, then," Varric replied, marking the plans with a pencil.
With everyone present and accounted for, Varric went over the plan again, largely for the governor's benefit. Contrary to what Amelle might have expected from the man, he did not offer criticism, but instead listened carefully, asking the occasional question or offering a suggestion.
Soon—too, too soon—there was nothing left to do but get ready.
Amelle needed Isabela's assistance, of course—desperately, in fact; the dress she'd ordered from Annabel's shop had most absolutely been altered for a corset, and Isabela was nothing but cheerful about that as she came—armed with cosmetics—to help Amelle dress, beginning with the corset. It was a job Isabela approached with vigor.
Lots of vigor.
"I told you," Isabela muttered with a soft grunt, tying the corset laces off while Amelle could still sneak breath into her lungs, "this dress wants a proper bosom."
Amelle pressed a hand to her abdomen and looked down at the proper bosom the corset afforded. "And if the corset explodes and I put out someone's eye midway through the meeting?"
"Stop being ridiculous. I did not tie you that tight," Isabela huffed, jutting out one hip as Amelle handed her the dress. Indeed, even in her arms, Antivan silk felt heavenly against the skin. "Now, come on, you have no idea how long I've been waiting to see the finished product."
Amelle shot Isabela a dry look in the mirror. "Since the day before yesterday, I imagine."
Isabela shook her head almost pityingly as she guided Amelle into yards of midnight blue Antivan silk. "Time passes more slowly when you're waiting for pretty things, Hawke." In the mirror, Isabela's pitying look vanished in a flash of lechery. "It passes especially slowly, I imagine, when you're waiting for certain handsome, broody things to—"
Amelle's face went suddenly warm. "One more word," she retorted primly, "and I swear to the Maker I will singe your eyebrows. Just button me up. Please."
Isabela loosed a long, lamenting sigh, but her fingers worked nimbly up Amelle's back, fastening buttons. "Half your problem, Hawke, is that you spend so much of your bloody time buttoned up to begin with. Honestly, I thought I would've rubbed off more on you by now." She watched, arms folded and eyes critical, as Amelle slipped into the velvet flocked jacket—offering aid when Amelle's own limited movement further hindered the process of dressing herself. "This dress is a work of art," she said, making a multitude of minute adjustments to various bits of ribbon and lace before moving aside to let Amelle see a mirror. "Don't waste it."
Amelle had a feeling her friend wasn't just talking about their errand.
Even though she hadn't been particularly thrilled when the question of a corset entered the equation, even Amelle couldn't argue just how admirably the jacket clung to the curves nature had not quite seen fit to provide her. In the mirror her waist flared more dramatically than usual, to say nothing of her newfound décolletage. Beyond the gown's structure, the color—both cooler and darker than she usually favored—played dramatically against her skin tone. In the reflection, her green eyes appeared almost grey.
"See? A work of art. Also, Hawke, your tits look great. And you can thank me later for that." Isabela reached into her case, liberating her cosmetics collection. "Now, according to my new bestest best friend, Annabel, Tevinter's favoring dramatic cosmetics this season. Less is not more; more is just enough. Also, apparently, kohl is all the rage right now." She paused in her rifling long enough to roll her eyes. "Which only means they're embarrassingly behind the times if you ask me."
Amelle sat and remained perfectly still as Isabela applied powders and paints to her face; the longer they worked, the more gleeful Isabela appeared, before finally leaning back with a flourish, exclaiming, "Andraste's frilly knickers, Amelle Hawke, even your own mother wouldn't recognize you."
Prudently, Amelle refrained from sharing her reply, choosing instead to look in the mirror; what she saw chased that reply and very possibly all future commentary from her tongue.
Amelle scarcely recognized herself. She was still very much Amelle Hawke, but some other version of her—one Amelle couldn't tell if she liked or not. The powders Isabela had applied only made her look fairer, but with a pearlescent shimmer to her skin; her eyes, ringed dramatically in kohl, stood out like two pale points, while her lips had been painted a deep, dark blood red.
"That should help you get into character," Isabela remarked, packing her things away.
"I don't see how it could do anything else," Amelle breathed, still staring at her face, so transformed, so herself and yet…not. She wore her hair simply, combed close against her scalp before topping it with a velvet-flecked hat, which reminded her of nothing so much as a gentleman's top hat constructed in miniature, adorned with a silver pin and dark blue feathers, finished with a cascade of blue netting. Once Amelle had the hat securely fastened, Isabela leaned back, arms folded, her lips pressed into a line, her eyes scrutinizing.
"Well," she said after a too-long silence. "If this thing goes pear-shaped, Hawke, it won't be because you didn't look the part."
Amelle looked again in the mirror at the woman reflected back at her. "Right. Now I just have to act the part."
And for that, she had a very good idea who she needed to speak with before they all left on this mad errand.
#
Amelle found Fenris in the Cousland garden, sat upon a long stone bench, legs stretched out before him, crossed at the ankle. He too was dressed for his part; Fenris wore the hood of his deep green cloak pulled forward and the folds hiding much of his face, which had been the entire plan to begin with. Beneath it, she knew he wore the same type of uniform the Tevinter riders had worn.
And yet, as he sat there on the bench, Amelle could not help but notice his lean grace, reminding her strongly of a cat dozing in a patch of sunshine.
But then she took a step and the illusion shattered. Fenris looked up at the sound of her boot upon the flagstones, and despite his face having been thrown into shadow, Amelle saw very clearly his reaction to her appearance. Eyes widening, he went very still. The kiss they'd shared on the bridge seemed immeasurably distant just then.
She flushed, though she could not say it was with pleasure. Her fingers plucked at her skirt and smoothed down the jacket. "I—since I'm to be a magister today," she said into the hush, gesturing needlessly at herself. "I… I have to look part."
Pushing back his hood, Fenris looked at her, eyes traveling from head to heel, though he said nothing for several seconds. Finally, he cleared his throat. "Your appearance is… flawless."
Amelle found she could not form the words thank you.
"That said," he went on, "it is not terribly difficult for one to adopt the mien of a magister. In this case acting the part is far more crucial than looking it." He paused. "I confess I find it strange you did not come to me sooner."
"For advice, you mean?" At his nod, she shook her head and sat next to him on the bench. "I did think about it."
"And still you did not. Why?"
"I didn't… want to ask. I didn't want to ask you to help me behave more like the people you've been trying to be rid of for so long." She scowled at the tips of her boots peeking out from beneath her skirts. "Truth be told, I'm not entirely keen on you seeing me act like them."
He didn't reply, though he did allow himself an annoyed grunt before turning on the bench, bringing one hand up to cradle her face, his palm warm and dry against her cheek. It was an effort of will not to melt into his touch with a deep, contented sigh. "Hawke. You forget that I have seen enough of you to know beyond a shadow of a doubt that whatever you say or do today will be an act."
"Then…" She decided to hell with it, closing her eyes and pressing into the touch. "Then do you have any advice, ser?"
"I do," he murmured, thumb stroking a path along her cheekbone. "Your pride must be incalculable, equal only to your capacity for cruelty. Those who do not possess magic are scarcely worth your time or effort, and you must take care to make them keenly aware of it. They are beneath you, little better than vermin. When you walk into a room, it is with the knowledge you are the most powerful one there—"
Blinking her eyes open, Amelle reached up to touch his hand. "And, out of curiosity, if I know full-well I'm not?"
"You misunderstand me." Taking her hand, Fenris threaded his fingers with hers and clasped it tightly. When he spoke again, his voice was harder, colder—though that coldness was not, Amelle knew, directed at her. "The Imperium itself runs on such charades. Political power and influence as frequently as not go to the magister who presents himself to be without peer."
"So the point is to behave as if I have the power to reduce everyone in the room to cinders and hope beyond hope no one decides to call me out on that?"
"Just so," he said, inclining his head.
A flock of starlings flew overhead and Amelle looked up, grateful for the distraction. "Just so we understand each other," she said, when the sky was once again clear, "I had no desire to see the Tevinter Imperium before this point. But at this rate, the Black City can open its gates and start raining candy before I set foot there."
Fenris' mouth kicked up at one corner, almost a smile. "I remain unsurprised."
"What you're telling me is that I have to be the coldest, cruelest, most calculating, prideful, preening bitch I can possibly be."
Fenris nodded, adding, "Disdainful you must set foot anywhere that does not bow down to the power you possess, any place that would dare hold you apart as an anathema for the very qualities you admire most in yourself." He glanced skyward, but no birds appeared to provide any sort of distraction. A muscle worked in his jaw. "I have not yet decided whether in a meeting such as this it would seem unusual for a magister not to have at least one slave."
"We can hardly spare anyone to play that part," she replied firmly—too firmly to allow room for any sort of argument. "But I imagine, as the meeting is meant to be rather covert, even a magister would be aware of what would run the risk of being too… obvious."
"One would hope."
"Besides, if anyone brings it up, my response should be vehement enough to silence all doubt."
"Yes."
They sat together in the hush of the garden as Amelle turned this information over and over in her head. "It's not terribly far from how I'd been planning to play it, only… more." Quite a bit more, as it happened.
"Your inclination is to hide what you are," Fenris replied, stroking one thumb over her knuckles. "I fear that inclination, if anything, would prove to be the most difficult quality for you to conceal."
A soft bark of laughter passed her lips. "Well, you're not wrong about that." She looked briefly at the window and saw movement within the library. It was nearly time. "Fenris," she said after a moment. "I need you to know, to understand that… that whatever I say or do today, it's—"
"It is a part you are playing," he said, reluctantly relinquishing her hand. "And nothing more." He smiled again, a small, private curve of his lips that made something flip pleasantly in her stomach. "Believe it or not, Hawke," Fenris said, his voice growing warmer, "I am familiar with the concept of theater."
"You have no idea how relieved that makes me."
"I think I do."
Fenris looked as if he might have said more, but then the door to the house opened, and Varric stepped out into the sunlight, wincing a little at its brightness. "Okay, kids," he said, adjusting his own green cloak. "It's high time to get this show on the road."
Amelle drew in a breath. She was to be preening. Calculating. Aloof. Cruel. Powerful.
They're all beneath me. I could grind them beneath my heel with scarcely a thought.
Vermin. Less than vermin.
She exhaled, meeting Varric's eyes. "All right. Let's go."
Showtime.
