Throughout lunch Cassandra wavered between enjoying and chastising herself as they worked through the staggering number of tasks waiting for Kirkwall's Knight-Commander and ersatz ruler. Fortunately he'd done nothing to follow up on her impetuous flirting, treating her, if possible, with even more of the guarded consideration he always had. With luck, he would set it entirely aside as his own hallucination.

She'd begun to relax by the end, simply doing the work, an odd sense of peace rising up among the violently scattered belongings of the room. She had no skill at running a city but she could manage guard rotations, and his beautiful, grateful smile as she set them aside with speed was a worthy reward.

Then he'd changed from his working clothes to a set of fitted leathers for their journey, and it had taken everything in her to turn aside.

But she did. She would continue to do so. No temptation had ever overwhelmed her since she joined the Seekers, and it certainly wouldn't now. Not when Leliana was here. Cassandra didn't participate in love triangles.

She stopped by her room to swap out her dagger for a sword and don her own armor before making her way to the docks, where Cullen waited by the boat. The empty boat. She stood uncertainly on the pier, looking for the attractive boatman they'd had the day before. When she saw him resting in the shade of the wall, he only waved.

She turned around again, and Cullen was sitting inside, hands on the oars.

"Are you getting in?" he asked. He sounded far too amused for her liking.

Cassandra gazed doubtfully across the harbor. "You will row both of us? Alone?"

"Well, I can only row both of us if you're actually on it," he said, eyes twinkling. "But please untie that back rope first."

She did as he requested and stepped gingerly inside. The metal of her armor was a second skin, something she often forgot she was wearing, but balancing with it atop a floating craft was still an unlearned skill. Cullen kept them even-keeled with the ease of long practice until she took her place across from him, then untied the remaining rope and pushed them away. He rowed with a smooth stroke, and soon they were setting a fast pace across the water.

"It's a long distance," she said, watching him for signs of potential fatigue as his arms worked in steady ellipticals.

"It is."

"But you do not require any assistance?"

"I don't."

His curt answers would have been bordering on rude if his eyes weren't so alight with suppressed laughter. "Are you showing off?" she asked.

Then he did laugh, a barking sound that skimmed over the water as easily as they did. "Why, are you impressed?"

She pretended to consider. "No. You have not yet reached your objective," she said.

And there was that grin, that maddening, Maker-blasted grin. "Fair enough," he said, breathing out words during strokes. "Don't worry. I do this often. Commanders. Don't get to. Train enough. They allow. Me to row. Myself on. Trips to Kirkwall. To keep in shape."

Each fragment was punctuated with a flex of his forearms that showed the undeniable results. "It seems to be working," she said.

He mouthed thanks, then fell to silence as he focused on the work. And that was fine with her. She was already falling back into the rhythms of flirtation, and it was irritatingly unlike her to be so uncontrolled. The more they talked the more she said things that couldn't be unsaid. The feelings of light under his gaze weren't only single bursts, now - they were a fusillade of sparks through every part of her, blazing far too high for comfort. She was growing desperate to fall fully in love with this man. The one small comfort was that he seemed uninterested in the entire process.

She shook herself. Focus. Ignore the man breathing in harsh, ragged breaths across from her. Look across the water, at the ships creaking and groaning as they rocked in port. Goods transferred off, money transferred on, the bustling life of a city a year after a mage's knife had sliced through its heart. Cities were more resilient than people, and Kirkwall was living proof. Hawke had done well here, showing a knack for ruling that belied her rumored irreverence and disdain for responsibility. She'd even inspired stability in nearby Starkhaven, a place that had seemed ripe for civil war, merely by finding the right man to steer to its center and unravel it all.

Hawke placed her finger unerringly on history's weak points. She had to be their Inquisitor. No one else could rebel so cleanly.

Cassandra absently touched the plait that circled her head. Strange to think that she would become an insurgent, if Justinia's efforts failed. It was a necessary rebellion, she was certain, but there were trapdoors lurking under their feet, and she felt them creaking like the docked ships that drew ever closer.

Cullen grunted softly, and she looked at him, concerned. He didn't acknowledge it. He hardly seemed to know she was there, his eyes boring into his knees with a furious determination. The tension in him was nearly unbearable, a string pulling tighter and tighter until it seemed impossible it could hold. A sharp line creased his forehead as he strained against the drag of the water over the oars, and his mouth was drawn into the thin grimace of a man bleeding out on the battlefield.

She felt a sudden rush of sympathy. He couldn't be more than thirty, younger than her, and he hadn't been young for a very long time. He would certainly never be again.

Beads of sweat tracked down his hollowed cheeks, tracing the contours of his face to disappear down the curve of his neck and into his leather cuirass. She glanced up. The early rain had given way to oppressive afternoon clouds, and belatedly Cassandra realized how hot it was, and how little his armor breathed. The humidity was stifling, a wet cloth blanketing the world, and Cullen would collapse at this rate. He had to remove it.

She'd begun to stretch her hand towards the body that moved like the waves when she froze. Maker save her, was she really planning to undress him?

Too easy to see her fingers catching on the buckles that kept the armor snug against him. Too easy to imagine working her hand underneath the leather to pull and twist it away from the burning flesh beneath, to free him from the constraints that his clothing afforded. Simple to keep going, to run her hands over what she'd revealed to keep it burning, but this time for her. Intoxicated and light when she captured his lips each time he began another stroke. Snarling and impatient when he hauled away, until he came back to meet her sloppily, hungrily, even as he never broke pace.

How would he react if she wasn't across from him but on him, straddling his lap while he propelled them across the water? His hands would be trapped and occupied, and she could explore and tease to her heart's content. Cullen was likely a quiet lover - most Templars were - disciplined and restrained even in the grip of desire. She knew how to manage that. So easy to see his jaw working in mute agony as she slid her hands over his hard body, eyes closed in worship as his hips rocked against her own. So trivial to draw out pleas until his voice was no longer baritone but desperate bass rumbling her name. Whispering that he needed her, only her, to complete him.

Heat shot through her core at the half-heard sound, tingling and wrong, and she lowered her hand quickly. Not the armor, then.

Instead she looked behind her and found a water flask. She twisted to reach it and unstopped it quickly, holding it in the sightline of the laboring Templar. The furrows on his brow cleared as he blinked his way back from wherever he'd been, and he nodded gratefully. She could still only catch his lips on the coiled part of his stroke before he danced away, but she poured water into his mouth each time he drew near until he nodded once more and she put it away.

It wasn't the same as her mouth, but it was what he'd needed.

Once they reached the harbor proper their pace slowed, and she called out obstacles when needed to save him constantly turning around. She knew she was supposed to use starboard and port to signal direction, but truthfully she'd never understood them, and she settled for pointing. From the exasperated look in his eyes he was planning to explain them to her as soon as he caught his breath. She would let him.

Leliana was waiting on the pier, implacable and unmistakable, and Cassandra made sure to tell Cullen as soon as she saw her. He smiled briefly, then turned his attention back to steering around a pair of fishing boats that couldn't decide whether to stay or leave.

A couple of sailors also waited when they arrived at the bard, and one of them smiled broadly as the boat kissed the pier. He grabbed the rope Cullen tossed him and guided them to a nearby post. "Came in hot on that one, didn't you Commander? Saw you leaving the Gallows and thought you'd be taking a breather halfway through. Wish I'd thought to time it. Pretty sure you set a new record, or damn near enough. They feeding you Templars something new over there?"

"Of course not. We haven't updated the menu since the Order was founded," said Cullen cheerfully. His breathing was back under control, the punishing tension gone, and he reached into the harbor to splash a palm full of water over his face to remove a portion of the sweat. "Must have just been a good day for it."

His carefully neutral face wouldn't have fooled a child. "You were showing off," said Cassandra, crossing her arms over her chest plate.

"Mmmm. Came close to heat stroke to do it, too," he said, tying off the second rope. "Thanks for the water."

He stood without waiting for an answer and hopped onto the wooden planks in a single, graceful movement. She was much more cautious, which seemed to work against her as she corrected for every tilt of the boat.

Cullen, Leliana, and the sailors all watched her try to tame the unceasing movement of the wood with varying degrees of amusement on their faces. "Maker, Cassandra, you're a terrible sailor," said Leliana eventually.

"I have not yet fallen in, have I?"

"But you will have to sleep, I believe, if you stay there all day, and laying down may be your doom," said the smiling sailor.

She growled as she focused on her feet. She would master this. But eventually the man sighed and grabbed at her, grasping her firmly on the wrist. He pulled her up with a terrifying speed that seemed to stun the boat into stillness as she left it. She suddenly found herself on the dock, pressed flush against the suspiciously helpful man.

He didn't let go.

The sailor grinned when she lifted an eyebrow. "One of the perks of helping beautiful women reach shore."

"You realize I'm wearing armor." He would hardly be able feel a thing of her, except for her bare hand.

"Somehow makes it better. Imagine you'd feel even softer underneath," he said with a quick wink. It should have been off-putting, but the man's voice held a note of self-awareness that kept her from striking him. Whatever else he was, he had the gift of charm.

But her heart didn't gallop, and she felt no stirring of attraction. This wasn't for her. She stepped back easily with a word of thanks, and the man shrugged as though to say, Can't blame a man for trying.

She turned back to Cullen, to thank him as well for his effort, but the words died on her lips when she saw Leliana's arms around his neck. The woman was on her very tip-toes to reach his height, and she was gazing up at him with studied sorrow. "I'm sorry for what happened in your office. I shouldn't have been so forward."

The second sailor watched them sudden interest, not even trying to hide his leering, and if Cullen's face hadn't already been red from the exertion, Cassandra knew it would have high color on it once more. His hands settled on Leliana's waist gently. It was hard to believe the powerful arms that had propelled them here could be so tender. "I understand. You were doing your job."

"Nice work if you can get it," muttered the man behind her, and Cassandra turned to glare at him. He saluted and grinned again, turning away to help another boat land.

She took her time re-facing her companions, cursing herself, cursing the world, cursing every single unheeded instinct that had told her to keep away from this. A dull ache settled in her stomach when she ran out of curses. What in the Maker's holy name had she been thinking?

By the time she'd finished the rotation, Cullen was giving Leliana a light hug. When they were through, he stepped away and cleared his throat, studying the city intently. "Shall we go? The Hanged Man is this way."

"Why are you going to risk them in a bar like that, boy? Keep your catches in your own net," said the second sailor, and he laughed when the Templar spun on his heel and walked away.

Cassandra followed slowly, letting him gain some obviously needed distance. Leliana caught her elbow as she passed and whispered, "I hope you appreciate this. It isn't easy."

"Yes, I can see how difficult that must have been for you," said Cassandra under her breath. "Stop torturing the man and give him what he wants."

Leliana laughed loudly, a musical sound that pierced the noise around them like one of her arrows. Even through his armor Cassandra could see Cullen stiffen ahead of them, though he didn't turn around. "Oh Cassandra, you really are an innocent. This game requires a little torture."

"There are days when I think Justinia must have been mad to elevate you to such a position of responsibility," said Cassandra grumpily. "You are clearly lacking the moral sense the Maker gifted to the rest of us."

"The Maker is mysterious," said Leliana. "But He would never condemn a little immorality for the sake of a good cause."

The streets of Kirkwall weren't nearly so tarnished as she'd feared from people's descriptions. They weren't prosperous, but they were clean, and outside of the smell of the spoiling harbor she scented little garbage or even the beginnings of it. People smiled and held their heads up, even if their hands stayed near their coin purses in crowds. All in all, no different from Denerim, or even Nevarra City.

When she said as much to Cullen he only said, "It's daytime."

When they reached their destination, however, it more than exceeded her expectations. The Hanged Man was dilapidated, its facade made of crumbling stone and a peeling coat of what had once been red paint, giving the whole building the look of a rotted apple. Cassandra half-expected to see a giant worm rising up out of the roof like smoke from a chimney. At the least, she was certain the interior was a cocktail of disease.

"People drink in there?" she asked, truly baffled.

Leliana smiled thoughtfully, and Cullen shrugged. "Tethras is a businessman. You'll see."

The inside was no less grimy, though it was at least dimly-lit in the corners to disguise the fact. They also disguised the occupants of the tables, who tended towards large and armed. It was a dive, plain and simple, and had she been traveling on her own she would have turned around and left immediately. And she knew how to kill people, intimately.

She stared around her, trying to see the sense in a business like this. It was true the place was oddly alluring, if you looked at it long enough. It felt dangerous and shadowy, almost thrilling. Cassandra's hand touched her sword, confused, and Cullen moved into a careful flank. But when she looked over he was still smiling, and he didn't seem alarmed or even aware of his movement. She wondered if he even understood the guard he carried inside of him.

Leliana suddenly let out a low laugh, and Cullen nodded when she caught his eye. They shared some moment of understanding together, and Cassandra scowled. She was being made to look foolish. Again.

"What?" she finally asked, when neither of them said anything.

"It will be better if you see for yourself," said Leliana carelessly, then moved to claim a table and kicked up her feet. "You can't expect us to do all the work for you, Cassandra."

Cassandra took the seat across from her and glared, but the Orlesian ignored her. To her surprise, Cullen slid into the chair next to her and leaned in. "Look at the long table by the fire," he said in a low voice, nodding his head helpfully.

She did, not bothering to hide her scrutiny. "Yes. A table of thugs," she said. There were a dozen men and women drinking out of large steins, muscles bulging and dancing under ripped shirts. They were typical stock, laughing and pounding the table whenever a particularly loud belch emanated from one of their members. They wore daggers and swords on their hips, bows across their backs, and they were clearly settled in for the duration.

Cassandra frowned as she studied their boots. Well-made. Not the standard cast-offs a common enforcer could garner. "Or mercenaries, perhaps. Successful ones, by their coin earned or their kills' wealth."

"Look at the tie of the swords," said Cullen, even nearer to her ear, and she fought the shiver that ran through her as she stared at something completely unremarkable. They'd tied a common knot at the sheath, slinging them low on their hips. She was about to turn back to ask what game he was playing, when she suddenly saw.

The ties were keeping the swords safely inside their fastenings. No one would be drawing a weapon from that table.

Her eyes darted around the room, taking in the smaller tables, the quieter ones with the wealthy men dressed for danger, their simpering ladies with wide eyes as the room rattled and shook. A particularly inventive swearing contest was beginning at the bar, and those tables shrank back and pulled closer all at the same time.

She laughed then, too, and turned back to Cullen and Leliana to see their pleased smiles. "It's a show," she said. "Entertainment. Nothing is real."

"Everything in this world is real," said a smooth voice behind her, accents unmistakably dwarven. "Even the cardboard at the back of a stage is real. But this is more. Entertainment is such a shallow word. I prefer 'experience'."

Before she could turn around, the owner of the voice had circled to take the place beside Leliana. He was the right height and had the right attitude to be a dwarf, but something about him seemed off until she realized his square jaw was completely bare. Instead he wore a low-cut shirt that had seemingly caught the hair he'd removed above it. She must have been staring, because he rubbed a finger along the smooth skin under his mouth and smiled. "I never quite got the hang of grooming it."

"Varric," said Cullen. He held out a hand in greeting, then blinked as it was immediately filled with a mug of ale from a silent server.

Cassandra and Leliana also found themselves holding drinks, and Cassandra sniffed hers carefully before taking a sip. The glass was cracked and chipped, but the inside was clean. The ale itself was rough but good quality. More set-dressing.

"You're getting the medium-grade stuff," said Varric. "Haven't graduated to the best, yet, but I have high hopes for you." He leaned back with a considering look. "So, Curly. Didn't think I'd see you here again. To be honest, it wouldn't have broken my heart if I hadn't. But I'm always happy when a man brings a beautiful woman to my bar. Even if it's you. And it's even better when you bring a spare."

He slashed a lopsided grin at Leliana, who giggled lightly, then another at Cassandra, who tried to give the impression she could dent his thick skull from this distance quite easily.

His smile only intensified. "And they're both a delight. So, just come in to soak up the ambiance, or did you have another goal?"

Cullen started to speak, but Cassandra overrode him. "We came here to ask question and get answers, not banter like flirting barflies, Messere Tethras."

Leliana snorted into her drink, and Varric drummed his fingers on the table. "No need to break out the fancy manners here m'lady. Varric is just fine…" He trailed off and gave her an expectant look.

"Seeker Pentaghast," she said.

"Leliana," said the other woman, setting down her empty glass. "I assume the drinks are on you?"

"Not if you keep downing them like that!" said the dwarf, winking. "I do have to turn a profit, you know." At Cassandra's warning growl, he settled his face into a solemn expression. "Answers. Those I have in spades, though they may not always be the answers you want. It depends on the questions, doesn't it?"

"We've been warned of you, Varric," said Cassandra. "The truth only."

The dwarf shot an amused glance at Cullen. "I pride myself on serving nearly every drink known to the Marches here, and most known to Thedas, but I'm afraid truth is a vintage I've never stocked. Not without being mixed with a liberal dollop of embellishments."

"They just want to know about Hawke," said Cullen. He hadn't touched his own drink. "Where she is, or what you know about where she might be."

Varric went still. "Well that will be a fast conversation," he said casually. "I don't know, and I have no idea. Thanks for stopping by, don't forget to take a crack at the arm-wrestling before you leave."

Before he could hop off of his chair, Leliana's hand gripped his shoulder. "Now, Varric, I feel we're all friends here. At least, I hope we are. I certainly feel we are something, and if we aren't friends then we must be enemies," she said in a deliberately sweet voice. Her other hand reached over her own shoulder to draw an arrow from the quiver she wore. "I do hate to make enemies. It's quite distressing. Though, fortunately, my enemies never seem to trouble me for long."

Only a small bob of his Adam's apple betrayed the dwarf's nerves. "Seeker, you're not going to let her talk to me like that, are you? Your noble Order would never allow such coercion."

Cassandra took a sip to hide her smile. "The Right Hand of the Divine controls everything except the Left, I'm afraid."

"You're from the Divine? Andraste's dimpled ass, what is Hawke mixed up in this time?"

Cassandra only shrugged, waiting. Varric gave her a pleading look. "Doesn't it matter to you that I gave you a free drink? Out of the kindness of my golden, roguish heart?"

"If I found you at all charming, perhaps it would. But I do not."

Cullen covered his burst of laughter with a harsh cough, and Varric smiled. "You, I like. Fine, I'll talk to you. Red here, on the other hand, can go to the bar. You and Curly. Non-negotiable."

Leliana raised an eyebrow at Cassandra, and she shrugged. Cullen didn't get a vote, though by the way he shifted in his seat he didn't like the terms. Leliana leaned towards Varric, who leaned away carefully. "Are you buying my drinks, then?" she asked.

He gave her a speculative look. "How good are you with that bow?"

She drew at lightning speed, nocking the arrow she'd been toying with and sending it speeding across the tavern to land, trembling, next to the dart board. The patrons underneath the flight path gasped, scraping their chairs against the wood as they tried to retroactively escape it, but Varric looked unimpressed. "You missed, Red."

Leliana smiled and drew again. The second arrow split a shaving off the first before nestling next to it, and the table of mercenaries burst into applause and wolf whistles. "I didn't want to pay for any damages," she said, slinging her bow back into place.

Varric whistled. "Not bad. Bianca would be impressed. Okay, free drinks. Just sit at the bar and be menacing. Put your hood up," he said. He turned to Cullen and sighed. "Curly, just try to look a little less like you're late to choir practice at the Chantry."

Cullen grumbled and stood, but he didn't leave. Instead he bent his head close to hers and murmured, "If you need me, tap your finger three times on the table. I'll be watching."

She nodded but secretly doubted he'd be doing anything of the sort. At a bar with a tipsy Leliana, his attention would soon be much more pleasurably occupied. Lucky him.

As soon as the pair were settled on their stools, Varric leaned forward and took Cullen's drink. "So, Seeker. What do you want to know?"