Notes: This is a long chapter (I couldn't get it under 10,000 without cutting content that I don't think can be cut, so I waived my somewhat flexible rule about this) and it is an M-rated chapter at the beginning. So enjoy!
Chapter 11: Hidden Plots
Max had eagerly anticipated—and felt a bit nervous about—what he expected when they arrived back in Skyhold. But Dorian was a man of many layers, and beneath the surface layer of fun, flamboyancy, cynical man-of-the-world wisecracking, and blatant innuendo was a man who was privately quite sensitive, idealistic, and uncertain. Max watched in the Inquisition coach as that sensitive layer bubbled up to the top again and the playful Dorian layer sank below the surface.
Dorian was quite experienced with sex—that, it seemed, was on some level a defiance of his father and Tevinter culture, to assert to them that he was attracted to men and proud of it and would not shove it behind closed doors. In fact, he would make a scandal of himself and embarrass his family, he was so determined to be himself in a society that did not want him to. That was the man who often dropped innuendo. But it was not what Dorian truly wanted in life, Max could tell.
So when Dorian entered Skyhold looking clammed up, closed off, and—dare Max think it—repressed again, Max was not surprised when his promise turned into an almost innocent kiss on the cheek and a manly embrace that could have been given to a mere friend, it was so brief. He turned aside and began to walk away toward the library, which Max knew was an escape.
"Dorian."
The young Tevinter turned around.
"I don't want to pressure you into anything that you aren't ready for," Max said carefully. "If you changed your mind or had second thoughts along the way, or just want to move slowly again, that's fine and I'll respect it. But if so, would you tell me? Maybe I could help."
"That's not it," Dorian said. "It's... Maker, it's stupid."
"After what I saw in Villa Maurel, I think I understand. Would you let me help? You can stop me if I'm wrong, or if I make you too uncomfortable."
Dorian looked as if he wanted to refuse, but Max saw the instant that he resolved to talk. His face relaxed. "All right," he said. "I have to confess—it's stupid and I am a Maker-damned fool, but—it makes me—I'm—"
"Nervous?" Max suggested.
Dorian nodded in embarrassment. "Me, nervous. Can you believe that?"
Max laughed. "I actually think it makes a lot of sense! You're a fun person, Dorian. You like to joke and say clever, funny, risque things. And that really is who you are. I don't mean to imply that it is a false front or that it isn't real. It is. But it's not all that you are."
"Well, I would be a shallow person if it were," he said defensively.
Max did not take the bait. He knew that Dorian's defensiveness was because he understood that Max was about to go to some places which he—Dorian—was not able to face on his own, or else he would have done so. But if Dorian truly did not want him to continue, Max had told him to say so.
So he did continue. "I think that you would flaunt your attraction to men in Tevinter in the most brazenly scandalous ways because you wanted to force your society itself to take notice and accept it, not lock it up as a dirty little secret that no one knows about but your family. You wanted, one might say, to pull this reality out of a closet."
"That's a way to put it," Dorian concurred.
"But," Max continued, his thoughts resolving even as he spoke, "even then, you used institutions that are accepted in Tevinter to do it, mostly. Not entirely, since you told me that you did pursue flings with other aristocrats' sons, but I would suspect that those were few and far between romps at pleasure houses and the like."
"You would be correct about that too."
"So even when you were rebelling, you were following Tevinter rules in a way," Max said, plunging the metaphorical dagger as he looked Dorian in the eye. "You were making a public scene of yourself, but other than that, you were doing what Tevinters like us 'are supposed to do.' Weren't you?"
Dorian started. "You are a perceptive, intelligent man, Max Trevelyan. Has anyone ever told you that?"
Max laughed. "Not to brag, but... yes, more than once." He grimaced. "Sometimes I think it's brought me nothing but heartache and anger, because I perceive and figure out things that are painful. But not this time, I hope!" he finished, gazing hopefully at Dorian.
Dorian considered his words thoughtfully. "There is a lot of truth to what you say," he finally said. "I suppose I didn't ever really expect I could have anything more. I wanted to force Tevinter, or the altus at least, to get out of their damned boxes that they built for themselves. To rip off the metaphorical masks—masks with no eye holes—that they have put on their faces. But... no, I don't know that I ever expected personally to benefit from making the change that I wanted to make." He gazed unhappily at the ground, then sideways at Max. "The kinds of people who pioneer change often don't get to benefit."
"But sometimes they do," Max argued. "Look at the Free Mages. There's no hard and fast rule that rebels cannot do anything but leave behind a legacy for the next generation, of which they personally can't partake."
"Some of the Free Mages did die in battle. They didn't get to see the future they'd given their lives for," Dorian pointed out.
"Yes, but they were fighting an actual war. It was... reasonable... for them, and maybe even for their leaders, to consider that possibility while they were fighting. But you? Maker, Dorian, why wouldn't you be able to benefit? You're not old or sick!" He chuckled wryly. "Your life is actually in more danger since you joined the Inquisition."
Dorian paused before blurting out, "There is a reason my accursed father resorted to—to—attempting to mind-rape me to get his precious legacy. I am thirty years old."
"And you thought time was running out for you to find someone?" Max said, bewildered. "Why? In the Circle, people who were forty, even fifty, might form relationships with each other. And it happens in general society too. I daresay it happens in Tevinter as well. Have you never seen a middle-aged couple get together? I don't understand this."
"A middle-aged couple of a man and a woman, yes."
"You're not fundamentally different, Dorian. What you want is physically different, but the generalities of what you—and I—want are the same. Love. Affection. Exclusivity. Trust. And in a way, we're luckier! We know we're not going to make children together. Our relationships don't need to have that as a factor at all. We don't need to resign ourselves to 'giving up on it' as a forty-year-old woman might or turning to women half our age just for the sake of fertility as a middle-aged man might. The 'age limit'—which isn't a limit for anyone if love is what they're after—well, it doesn't apply to us."
Dorian sighed heavily, a shuddering breath. "You're right, of course. I have been nervous about potentially finally having the real thing. I am not sure if I know how, to be quite honest."
"Well, it's not like I have a lot of practice at love either," Max muttered.
Dorian chuckled bitterly. "All right. I concede the point." He paused. "I need to think. I won't make you wait forever, though. That I promise. If I can't fix myself enough to take the plunge, I will tell you."
"I want to help..."
"So does Cole," Dorian said brutally, "but both you and he need to realize that sometimes you can't. Sometimes it's something a person must do for themselves."
"That's fair. But if there is anything I can do, let me know."
Max was torn after that discussion. He felt that he had made progress with Dorian, but he was not sure if it qualified as a breakthrough. Well, he resolved, he has a lot to think about. He must still be conflicted about that father of his, for one. I'll give him time yet. But as he said himself... not forever. At least he knows that, though.
Dorian still had not come to him the next day. In fact, he was not even in his usual place, the library. Max could not find him inside the castle at all. He is hiding from me. He knows I'll look for him in the library, Max thought.
He scowled at the throne that rested at the end of the great hall. I'm not a king. But it was for his use, so he sat—slumped, really—down in it to think.
"Inquisitor!"
His head shot up as a figure approached him. The person, one of Leliana's messengers based on her livery, drew close enough to speak to him without anyone milling around in the court to overhear. "A note, Inquisitor." She passed it to him. "It is about Dorian." She bowed and left at once.
Max instantly unfolded it and read the message.
That's peculiar, he thought, his brow furrowing as he put it away. Dorian had been spotted outside the castle—which made sense enough—arguing with someone. Leliana's people had been concerned it was about the Venatori, so she had "investigated"—a flash of anger flared up inside Max at that; did these people still not trust Dorian?—but in fact it was just an Orlesian merchant named Ponchard de Lieux who owned an amulet that Dorian had been trying to purchase.
There had not been a word about this amulet on the trip or its aftermath, but undoubtedly it was important to Dorian in some way. Perhaps the merchant was trying to extort or blackmail Dorian, offering it at a ruinously high price, and that was why they argued.
Max glanced at the arms of his throne. I'm Inquisitor. This merchant may think he can get more than he should from "the Tevinter companion of the Inquisitor's," but only if Dorian attempts it alone. He won't dare try that on me. This is something that I can fix. And If it's that important to Dorian, I will.
When Max found Dorian again, he had returned to the library by an exterior entrance—which struck Max as an attempt to avoid him—and was quietly discussing the use of necromantic horror visions to Alison Dupres-Trevelyan.
"I wish I had known this the night they killed my father," the girl said, pointing at a picture in a book. Max could see even as he ascended the final stairs that it was a drawing of some sort of eldritch creature with tentacles and many eyes. "I would've cast it and scared them into paralysis."
"You were very young," Dorian said kindly to her. "What happened is not your fault."
She noticed Max's ascent. "Uncle!"
Dorian smothered a grimace as Max reached the top. "Ah. So you see how I am corrupting your niece with discussions of forbidden magic."
Max raised an eyebrow. "The horror spell isn't forbidden."
"It's interesting," the girl agreed. "And I think it's better to be able to frighten one's enemies so much that they don't attack than it is to have to defend oneself with bloody, violent, killer spells. Nobody dies this way, and maybe they learn to keep away from you."
"Leaders of nations think in much the same way," Dorian observed.
Max smiled. "Dorian is just joking. And being evasive with me." He gave Dorian a stern look.
Alison rose from her chair, picking up the book. "Ah. In that case, you two should talk." She winked, indicating a level of understanding and awareness of the situation between the two men that rather surprised Max, and headed into a private area of the library.
"What is this amulet you're interested in buying?"
Dorian glanced up sharply. "You know about that? Of course you do. Leliana's people." He scowled at the tabletop. "Don't make an issue of it. I don't want you solving my personal problems for me."
"What is it, exactly?"
"It's the Pavus birthright," Dorian said. "The flashy thing you show peons to make them tremble at your impressive lineage."
He was trying to put contempt into his words, but Max could see right through that. Whatever this thing's associations in his homeland, it was still emotionally significant to him. It stood for something that he valued despite negative feelings. Rather like his father himself... or Tevinter itself. What could Max say? Despite his resentment of his own father, Max was proud of his family heritage. It didn't only stand for unpleasant things.
All Max had to do was raise a single eyebrow at Dorian for that false front to crumble.
"All right," Dorian conceded. "I didn't leave Tevinter with much coin, so I sold it."
"And you're trying to get it back."
"It's mine, and it shouldn't be passed around like candy."
Max nodded. "I understand extremely well, actually."
"I am sure you of all people do. But leave this be. I can get it myself."
"You weren't making a lot of headway with that merchant. Is he demanding an extortionate price for it? This is the sort of thing I can help with—"
"I won't have you solving my problems for me!" Dorian insisted. "You have too much on your plate already."
"Dorian," Max said quietly as he turned away, "you need to find peace with everything. You're in a state of utter turmoil about anything to do with your family, your past... even your homeland, now. I feel that this is partly my fault for bringing my father into Skyhold."
"It is not your fault. My father was communicating with Mother Giselle anyway."
"True. But you're unhappy, and it's all right to ask for help."
Dorian merely scowled back in response.
"Why are we going out here?" Dorian asked Max as their carriage rolled up to Halamshiral's market district. Max had managed to arrange a meeting with the Orlesian merchant before he returned to Val Royeaux. And as the merchant himself came into view, a golden mask over his face, Dorian's expression turned outraged. "Oh no—this is why? I told you not to do this!"
They got out of the carriage, approaching de Lieux and observing the smirk bloom on his face. "Good, good," he said scratchily. "Inquisitor. This is exactly what I was hoping for."
Dorian whirled on Max. "I told you! I don't want to be indebted to anyone, especially you!"
"I apologize," the merchant smarmily cut in, "but that won't be possible. Do forgive me, Inquisitor. But when I heard about your... association... with Monsieur Pavus, I could not resist."
"Could not resist extorting the Inquisitor!" Dorian exploded. "This is exactly why I wanted to settle this myself."
"It is not coin I seek for the amulet, but influence," de Lieux said. "Influence you possess but the young man does not."
"What do you want?" Max asked, wishing to just get this over with.
"I do business in the Imperium. Having a birthright, even one not one's own, can be useful in... certain situations."
"He's got the right of it there," Dorian said cynically.
"So you aren't selling it back?" Max exclaimed. "You want to pretend to be a Pavus? Do you think they won't know any better? Dorian has told me how very thorough his people are about tracking 'bloodlines'!"
De Lieux smiled. "Oh, it is not that."
"What do you want?" Max said in hard tones.
The merchant smiled more broadly. "The League de Celestine is an organization of wealthy noblemen in Orlais. I would join, but I lack the lineage. But if someone like you applied pressure, they would admit me. That would be worth the return of the amulet."
Max gaped at him. "That's what you want?" He shook his head. "They don't sound like they're worth knowing, to be frank."
"It would be a great boon to my business. The prestige is what I value, not the members themselves. This is my price. No other."
Max heaved an angry sigh as he turned away. "I'll see what I can do."
"You're giving in to this cretin?" Dorian burst out as they walked away from the man.
"Do you want the amulet back?" Max replied, stepping into the open carriage. "Of all the things he could ask for, this is not the worst possible one. Getting a snobby, elitist organization to admit someone new..."
"By corrupt means!" Dorian's face fell. "Using corrupt methods to address a corrupt system—it's just more corruption! That's all that comes of it!" He heaved a breath. "I wouldn't have you compromise your ideals and use the Inquisition's power for—for me."
"What better reason to use it?" Max said intensely. "I appreciate your consideration, Dorian—I really do. But I won't let this 'corrupt' me. I wanted to do this for you. You said you wanted to solve it yourself, but you couldn't have. Not this time." He shrugged. "You'll get what you want, that merchant gets what he wants, and we'll never have to deal with him again. You need to make peace with your past, Dorian, and if this amulet will help you do that, I will happily pressure a lot of Orlesian snobs to help you obtain it."
Dorian sighed heavily.
Max did not want to think too hard about just what Leliana's people had to do to pressure the Celestine League, composed of noble-born merchants, to accept one of common birth. Despite his general contempt for the stratified Orlesian society that prevented people from rising on merit—and, he had to admit it, de Lieux certainly was a good businessman, making a shrewd investment, identifying the customer he wanted, and driving a hard bargain—another part of him recognized that it was "their organization, their rules," even if those rules were unjust and he did not like them. It wasn't as if this private entity was an organ of the Orlesian nation itself and it wasn't as if it was prohibited for merchants to form alternative organizations.
And yet, Max knew full well that some things simply would never change unless someone forced it, top-down rather than bottom-up.
No, Max could not actually make full peace with himself about the ethics of the matter. Instead he focused on what it would mean to Dorian. That was an angle about which he had no conflicts. And when a messenger delivered a box containing the amulet, Max felt anticipation and giddiness suffuse him.
Dorian wants this back because it is a way of reclaiming his heritage, but on his own terms rather than anyone else's, Max realized. That's why he wanted to do it himself. I just need to convince him that it's still his terms.
"Could I adore you more?" Dorian asked teasingly as Max approached him.
Max raised his eyebrows. "Let's find out. I have your amulet."
Dorian accepted the open box—Max had wanted to be sure that de Lieux had actually sent the thing—and instantly took on an expression of mixed relief, gratitude, and dismay.
"Now I am in debt to you," he cried. "I didn't want to be in debt to you. I didn't want you to have the Inquisition do—this—for me." He sighed.
Max sat down next to him. "You're not in debt to me. It's a gift. A gift means no debt. I did it for you, to give you this gift."
Dorian sighed again, unable to look him in the eye.
"I think I understand," Max offered. "You wanted to get this back yourself because that symbolized being a Pavus on your terms, not your father's or anyone else's. Metaphorically speaking, you sold your heritage to escape your father, but if you could get it back, you would regain that and it would be entirely your own doing. You would get to define what it meant. Doing it yourself would've meant freedom from anyone else's definition. Is that right?"
Dorian glanced up sharply. "Your uncanny perception strikes again."
Max put an arm on Dorian's shoulders. "But that merchant wouldn't have let you have it on your own. The only way to regain it was to enlist me. But," he emphasized, "because I am giving it to you, no strings attached, no debt, that means... you still get to define what it means to be a Pavus."
Dorian pulled away. "That's all true, but you are ignoring the fact of what this will mean for you. Someone intelligent would cozy up to the Inquisitor if they could. It'd be foolish not to. He can open doors, get you whatever you want, shower you with gifts and power. That's what they'll say. I'm the 'magister who's using you.'"
Max crossed his arms. "I couldn't care less if they say that. I'm a public figure, Dorian. I've been called a murderer, a heretic, a blasphemer, a tool of Orlais, you name it. The Herald of Andraste. And I'm sure more names will be given to me. People are going to talk and I can't stop them. At this point, what frustrates me more is that what they would say about us isn't yet true. For once, I'd like to be guilty of what I'm charged with." He gave Dorian an arch look. "So why don't you 'use me'? Are you all talk?"
Dorian suddenly burst into laughter. "Oh, you are glorious." The laughs faded. "I was an ass earlier at the merchant's. It's a specialty of mine. I apologize and thank you." He gave a Tevinter-style bow, as if to end the conversation.
But Max was extremely well aware of Dorian's body language by now, and he had figured out that, for all his flashy boldness, Dorian was actually very vulnerable and unsure. He was one of those people who were one way in public and a very different way behind closed doors. He didn't have the... not confidence; Dorian didn't suffer from lack of confidence, but... some intangible something to lead for the very first time. In the future, yes, sometimes. But not this time. It would be up to Max to finally breach the barrier. He wouldn't have dared until this moment, fearful of hurting Dorian by pushing him too soon, but just as he couldn't name exactly what it was that made Dorian want him to lead, he couldn't say how he knew it would be all right now. He just knew that it would.
He leaned forward, wrapping an arm around Dorian's side once again. This time Dorian did not try to shrug it off. They leaned close, Max noting the smell of fine Tevinter liquor and spices—not on his breath, but in his clothes, faintly, as if there were a perfume meant to carry this scent. Perhaps there was. It was musky and spicy-sweet, rich and heady.
Their lips met and opened.
Vaguely—because it was nearly impossible for Max to think at this moment—he realized that Dorian's vulnerability and uncertainty was transforming into confidence by the moment. A strong arm wrapped around him, cupping his cheek, holding him in place for the Tevinter mage to plunder his mouth in a sudden surge of assertiveness.
They broke apart, gazing wide-eyed at each other. "That was—" Max broke off.
"It was."
He glanced up, in the general direction of his chambers, querying Dorian wordlessly with a questioning look and a half-smirk on his face. Dorian burst into a grin that was, at this moment, incomparably enticing. "I think so," he replied, rising to his feet. Max got to his own.
They fell into each other's arms at once and stumbled up the tower stairs, entering Max's quarters.
"I wish there weren't bloody spies all over this castle," Max murmured as he and Dorian clumsily fumbled their way toward the bed. He flexed his marked palm. "Maybe I should open a special rift..."
Dorian smirked. "Oh, should you? I quite agree."
The innuendo, Dorian's most brazen yet, hit Max with the force of a spell. He flushed hotly. "Maker's fu—flaming—breath," he gasped, rapidly correcting himself to avoid giving Dorian yet more to work with.
Dorian pulled off his tunic, exposing his chest and shoulders. He was very sculpted, a set of fine pectoral muscles and six visible abs almost drawing his attention away from the trail of dark hair that led into his trousers—
For a second. Then those were off too.
Max began to sense Dorian's magical aura, and he realized that his own was beginning to pulse too. That was fine, though. That was good. His only experiences in the past were with mages—the only other options were Templars, but he had not considered it appropriate for Circle mages and Templars to be together—and being with a mage was his comfort zone.
He pulled off his own clothes, pleased that he had gotten in shape by necessity after the Conclave finally brought him out of the Circle. He was sure that Dorian, for all his personal vanity, would not scorn the body of a lover even if he were flabby and unfit. But he was still glad that he was pleasing to this lover's eyes—and from the greedy gleams in Dorian's, it was clear to him that he was.
They tumbled onto the bed, kicking their boots off, their magical auras pulsing like heartbeats. The bed was unmade. That was a little bit of rebellion on Max's part; he had always had to pull the covers tightly in the Circle, but here, he could leave it in disarray all day if he wanted.
That will be convenient in the future, he thought as he pulled Dorian down. He felt the other man's hardness through their smalls. Off with those. He wrestled his lover, flipping him over, and pulled Dorian's drawers down. He was as large as Max had suspected.
"I think," Max murmured under his breath, "when you said that they should sculpt your face in marble... it shouldn't be limited to your face."
"It's... not that I don't appreciate the flattery," Dorian gasped, "but do put that delightful mouth of yours to another use, would you?"
"All right," Max said, smiling wickedly, "you asked for it."
A couple of hours of intimacy and bliss later, they finally decided that they should get out of bed and at least get dressed again. The idea of returning to "work" was anathema to Max—and from the look on Dorian's face, him too—but, as much as he might like to, he could not loll about nude in bed all day.
They pulled their clothes back on and stumbled their way over to the fine chairs that graced the Inquisitor's quarters. Dorian did not bother to fasten and tie every article of clothing back on himself, settling for leaving his tunic unfastened and that gorgeous chest still partially exposed.
"I think I may have misled you about my homeland in one respect," Dorian said. "This sort of relationship does exist, and there is a Tevene word for it. A... rather nice word."
"Oh?"
"Amatus," Dorian said. "It means 'lover.' And not just in the casual sense of sharing a bed, irrespective of the circumstances of that act. In the Tevene language, it shares roots with the word for 'love'..."
Max got up, smiling, and hugged him.
Eventually, of course, work forced itself upon Max again—but when it did, he was ready for it. His relationship with Dorian gave him a new sense of courage and confidence. No matter what, he would have one person he could trust unconditionally.
Most war table council meetings were about the Orlesian situation—at least, that was what Max called it in his mind. Leliana, Josephine, and Vivienne were trying to procure an invitation for the Inquisition to Celene's ball, where they believed Corypheus's agent would make their move.
"We are working our contacts to acquire an invitation," Leliana explained at one meeting. "Between the three of us, we think we can obtain access."
Cullen cleared his throat pointedly. "We have an invitation."
Max raised his eyebrows sharply. "Could you explain, Commander?" he asked at once. Leliana's coterie—as he considered Josephine and Vivienne—had clearly hidden that fact, whereas Cullen wanted to bring it forth. Better to let Cullen be the one to explain things.
"Grand Duke Gaspard has offered to escort you and your companions as his personal guests," Cullen said.
"Then why are we still pursuing Celene?" he asked, baffled.
"We think Gaspard has another agenda for inviting us," Leliana replied.
"Of course he does!" Max exclaimed. "And so would she! Either one of them would try to cloak themselves in our legitimacy—to claim that the Inquisitor himself supported their cause. We can't stop that, though, so I think we might as well accept Gaspard's invitation."
"We will, once we also have an invitation from Celene. We aren't just trying to identify and thwart Corypheus's agent. We need to settle the war, so we want her to listen to us. Therefore we need to convince her that we are not partisans of Gaspard."
"Then... I gather that she knows about his invitation, if she truly thinks we might be," Max said. "After all, she knows a few of us. Vivienne has ties to her court, you knew her through the late Divine, maybe Cassandra too... and Josephine is an ambassador."
Leliana smiled. "With stakes this high, every move is deliberated thrice over. Of course," she added, "we could sneak in a few people quite easily..."
"Not me, I'd bet," Max said dourly, flexing his marked fist. He held it up. "This would kind of give me away."
Josephine chuckled. "Precisely. And we need to prevent Corypheus's agent from unleashing chaos. We need to be something approaching guests of honor, though of course Gaspard himself will be that. But we need to enter the ball as very important personages, not just mere guest-list filler."
Max considered this, frowning in contemplation. Now that he thought about their words, several things they had said seemed passing strange. "What's actually going on with the Empress, Leliana?" he asked.
She frowned. "What do you mean?"
He rested his chin on his unmarked fist. "It really shouldn't be that easy for us to sneak anyone into a home of the Orlesian Empress, for one. My father"—he suppressed his glower—"is just a lord, not even a head of state, and that couldn't happen at East Peak. He employs captains, housekeepers, and so on who know who is supposed to be there and who isn't."
"The Empress's household is far larger than your father's," Leliana said. "There are too many servants and guards for the captain and housekeeper to know them all."
"Then there should be a hierarchy beneath them to directly supervise the underlings. There should not be a situation where someone can get in because there's nobody who knows they're not supposed to be there." He quirked his brows. "Either the Empress doesn't have those middle-ranked guards and servants, or they aren't reliable. And if that's the case, she is in danger of assassination before this ball."
"I think Corypheus's agent will want to make a statement," Leliana said, thinking. "He tried for several years to suborn the Grey Wardens, but after the Conclave, he has shifted his strategy to making extremely public statements for the sake of terror."
Max thought about that, deciding that she had a point. "Fair enough," he conceded, "but that doesn't address the fact that you think we could sneak anyone in at a presumably high-security event like a ball where her military rival will be attending. We shouldn't be able to do that. And then there's the fact that this ball is even occurring." He raised his eyebrows again. "What does she mean, inviting Gaspard for 'peace talks'? She's the rightful Empress of Orlais. Why is she holding peace talks with a traitor?"
Varric spoke up. "Inky's right," he said. "I lived through a war of several years. The white flag is the flag of truce, parley... and surrender. All three. That's what Celene is doing, holding up a white flag to Gaspard. The side that requests peace talks almost always has the weaker position. It means they see surrender as a better option than continuing to fight. That certainly was so at Tantervale. A peace embassy snuck out after Hawke and Anders sent the first batch of rockets, and then the flag flew from the city walls after... their final attack," he said euphemistically. "Has Celene lost?"
The advisors were startled. "I think," Josephine said, "that she merely wishes for peace. I would not say that she has lost..."
"It projects weakness," Max argued. "She must realize that." He shrugged. "I just hoped that someone would have an idea of why she was doing these things. But let's move on."
The advisors exchanged looks before Josephine spoke again. "Very well. Next on the agenda—the succession of Lydes."
"We're settling the succession of cities too?" Max asked, eyebrows raised.
"It is a crucial part of restoring stability in Orlais," she reassured.
"Orlais can't do this sort of thing itself?"
"Not at the moment."
"But why would Lydes, or anywhere else, accept an Inquisition-installed leader as legitimate?"
Leliana cut in. "Our influence will be clear, but not crass," she said. "We are not storming in with troops and forcing one of ourselves into the seat. We are looking at three candidates for Lydes who all have a claim by blood. We don't need to throw our support openly behind one. That could produce problems with perceived legitimacy. We just need to eliminate the other two."
Max gaped, holding up his hands in refusal. "No. I am not going to have people assassinated—"
"Eliminated as viable contenders in the Grand Game," Leliana clarified. "That need not be assassination."
Max settled back in his chair. "Who are these candidates?"
"Duke Remache, the last leader, was a strong partisan of Gaspard," Josephine explained, "indeed, from a family of strong supporters. So much so that his brother, Jean-Gaspard, was named for the Grand Duke. This brother is one candidate. He is a very competent, strong-willed chevalier."
"We have worked with him before," Leliana added.
"I don't recall any dealings with him..."
She suddenly flushed. "It was... he was one of the Orlesian nobles who spread the rumor about the Freemen of the Dales."
Max glowered. "I see." In his mind, he had already ruled out the chevalier for that alone. Someone behind such a stunt had no business ruling a city.
"The second candidate is the late Duke's cousin, Duchess Caralina. She is already a duchess by marriage and is uninterested in Lydes' governance," Josephine said. "This duchy would be a trophy to her."
Count her out too, then, Max thought. Orlais needs people who actually care about rebuilding and restoring it.
"The third is Duke Remache's daughter Monette," Leliana said.
Max gazed back at them all. "A brother, a cousin, and a daughter—and the succession is in question? How can that be? She's the rightful heir. Her uncle and her cousin once removed are trying to steal her inheritance. Either of them would be a usurper."
"It is not that clear-cut, Inquisitor," Vivienne interjected. "Perhaps in the Free Marches, these matters are simpler, but things are different in Orlais."
Max glowered at the supercilious condescension in these words. The First Enchanter was obviously implying that the Free Marches were a backwards land of unsophisticated bumpkins to stick with parent-child inheritance by default. But in his view, a system that allowed greedy elder relatives—who probably knew the ins and outs of the law far better, and certainly had more connections—to do a child out of their property was the backwards one.
"Monette's claim is clouded by the fact that her father wanted her to join the Chantry," Leliana explained, seeing the irritation on Max's face at Vivienne's phrasing. "He did so to protect her from the deadly intrigues of the Game. She is said to be a very gentle person."
"A very naïve person," Vivienne added.
"So she is a priest?" Max said, his heart sinking. If that were the case, she was indeed out of contention.
"Not yet. She has not sworn vows."
"Then we intercede right now and back her," he said. "Or eliminate the others by discrediting them somehow, if you prefer."
They exchanged uneasy glances. "She might not survive long," Josephine said, "and would be easily manipulated."
"You know," Max remarked, "the Chantry hasn't been the safest career option the past few years either. A Divine murdered... priests at war with each other... a Grand Cleric assassinated. You know full well that the Chantry plays the Game too, Leliana. What makes you think she'd be any safer there?"
At this, Leliana looked distinctly uncomfortable. "You do have a point, Inquisitor. Indeed, her Chantry mentor, Mother Renette, is a very hard-nosed person who is not afraid of blood. Rumor is that she backs Grand Cleric Petrice and that they are old friends. They certainly have certain methods in common, and a taste for proximity to secular power. Mother Renette does not insist that Monette take orders, appears to like the idea of her protégé becoming a duchess—no doubt because of the influence it would give her—and has suggested some rather grim methods to Monette for backing her claim, including sending mercenaries to threaten Caralina."
Max set aside the suspicion that suddenly arose from the mention of Leliana's rival. If Monette is gentle, she wouldn't necessarily be a hard loyalist of Petrice herself, whatever her mentor may be. "So Monette is already involved in the Game as a matter of life and death."
"Yes," Leliana admitted. "But if we encouraged her to take her vows, we could protect her in the Chantry. I could even engineer her rise as a priest. We need friends there as well, and we could mold her gentle spirit into a reformer priest, something sorely needed in that country."
Max exchanged looks with Dorian and Varric. That was a decent point too. There were an awful lot of narrow-minded priests in the Chantry. But he was still not satisfied.
"If we can intervene to protect her in the Chantry, we can protect her in a secular role too," he pointed out. "I'll tell you the truth: I don't think we should be involved in settling this succession. I think you would find that Orlais could manage it if they had no other choice. But," he reflected, "that would probably result in someone like Ser Jean-Gaspard seizing power. So if we are going to meddle, I think we should meddle on her behalf.
"As I see it, if we want a strong Orlais, we need good leaders in place. Duchess Caralina wouldn't be, if she doesn't even care about the city. Ser Jean-Gaspard might be competent, but someone who would spread a lie about bandits, blaming a convenient enemy for them with no evidence, is not someone who would be a just leader for Lydes. If Monette is gentle and sweet by nature—and has been studying in the Chantry—she might be just what we need to usher in reforms. And," he said with a pointed look at Vivienne, "in my eyes, she is the rightful heiress. You can sneer at Free Marchers as rubes if that gives you pleasure, but the truly barbarous system is one that lets other relatives who already have titles and wealth of their own steal a child's inheritance and force her to take lifelong vows of poverty and obscurity."
At these sharp, bitter last words, everyone at the table—even Dorian and Varric—exchanged uneasy looks. No one seemed to want to reply.
But at last Leliana did. "Inquisitor," she said heavily, "please know that I mean no offense with these words. But I think you take Monette's part so strongly because of personal reasons, given that you did not even know of her existence until a few minutes ago."
"What?" he exclaimed.
"You yourself are a lord's son who was dispossessed of your birthright—whatever part in your father's estate it might have been—and had a sister who was sent to the Chantry against her wishes and died because she ran away. You and your sister were forced into 'poverty and obscurity' in the Chantry or the Chantry-run Circle. I think this is motivating you to side with Monette."
Max realized that she wasn't actually wrong. He had not been consciously aware of it, but he had felt some similarities between the situations. But that does not mean my other points aren't valid, he thought. "You... may have a point," he conceded. "But that doesn't mean that she wouldn't be the best leader for Lydes, or that she doesn't have the rightful claim."
"Vivienne could have phrased it more diplomatically, but she was right that these matters can be complicated in Orlais," Leliana said. "The 'rightful claim' can be a very fuzzy matter."
"And the fact that a gentle soul would actually be a better, more just ruler than a duchess who sees it 'as a trophy' or a duke who would spread baseless lies about his enemies for political advantage? As I said, if we can protect her in the Chantry, we could protect her as Duchess."
"We have already worked with Jean-Gaspard, and it would be difficult to cut ties with him now," Leliana admitted. "We know a bit too much about him. There is the Freemen of the Dales matter, but... my agents have found evidence that he is actually the half-brother of the late Duke, and that his father by blood was a Grey Warden. By blood, he has no claim. And he knows we know this."
Suddenly some things became clear to Max. "So the truth finally comes out. You can blackmail him, and that's why you want him." He leaned forward. "But it doesn't quite work that way. Even if there is proof that his mother had an affair, unless there is also proof that he is not a duke's son—such as the Duke being away from the Duchess when he would have been conceived—then legally, he is. Is there such proof? No?" he added as Leliana shook her head. "So it's not something that could actually be used to eliminate him by law. But it is something that the Inquisition could use to control him. That's what it's about."
"We had a strategy planned out," Josephine admitted. "Install him as Duke of Lydes, making sure he stays in line. Get Monette away from a Petrice supporter and make her our friend in the Chantry. Placate Caralina with favors for Val Firmin, her husband's duchy. It would maximize Inquisition influence."
"At the cost of good governance for the people of Lydes." Max stared pointedly out at them. "I'm sorry to overthrow your carefully laid plans, but I can't support this. And I'm not happy that you made plans behind my back and then pretended that you hadn't because you wanted to make me think we all agreed upon the best course as a team. You actually just wanted to manipulate me into backing what you had already decided should happen." His voice cracked as anger gave way to sorrow and hurt. "Didn't we agree not to do that after the Freemen incident? Next time, involve me as a participant in your conversations. Is that possible? Yes, I'm young. Yes, I lived in a Circle for much of my life. But I'm not stupid, nor am I ignorant anymore. And the fact that I may have different opinions from you does not mean that I need to be 'educated'—or manipulated—or left out entirely."
He rose from the table and shoved his chair against the side, stalking out of the room with Dorian and Varric at his side. After a moment of hesitation, Cullen rose too, then Cassandra.
Max gathered his more trusted friends into yet another impromptu meeting in the Herald's Rest. One thing that had become plain to him was that, unless he took the initiative himself, these people were going to set up a scheme for him to follow with respect to the Imperial succession—and, after how the Lydes discussion had played out, he suspected that they would want to close as many doors as possible for Max to do anything other than what they wanted.
He could not decide if they knew, or suspected, more about Celene's situation than they were telling him. They unquestionably kept things from him. But some of them also displayed a type of... not naivete exactly, but willful blindness, about the people and institutions that they felt would be useful to them. It was possible that they simply did not want to accept that something might be seriously amiss with Celene.
But there was. There had to be. Max could not quite work out what, but something just did not add up about her actions and the risks she was willing to take—or the risks that she should not be vulnerable to but was. He hoped that his friends and he could collectively work out what it likely was, and from there, develop plans of their own for the Winter Palace ball.
By now, the proprietor knew to usher Max and his friends to a private room to give privacy to the Herald for whom the tavern was named. Max supposed he might be reporting the existence of the meetings to Leliana, but the door to the room was only a half-height swinging gate, so it was easy to tell if anyone was eavesdropping.
"Here's the simple truth," he confessed to his friends. "I'm disgusted with both Celene and Gaspard after everything I've seen in the Dales—the war crimes, the living conditions, and the fact that their biggest concern, the one thing they would take action on, was smearing Ferelden instead of helping their own people. They wouldn't dispatch the Imperial Army to deal with the actual bandits who were preying on Orlesian people, but they sure would do it to make their rival next door look bad."
Rainier nodded. "It is truly a shame and a disgrace that either of them must wear the crown of a great nation."
"The advisors are all very insistent that we must not put Prosper de Montfort on the throne because of his alliances in the Free Marches. I still think he would be the best choice for the goal of a strengthened Orlais, but they have a more important—to them—goal than that, the Lydes operation shows, and that goal is power and influence in Orlais for the Inquisition itself." He sighed. "I don't think I will be able to defy them outright at the ball, and with Corypheus's agent there, it might end extremely badly if I try to install Prosper. I'll admit that." He gathered his thoughts. "In the Lydes planning, they wanted to 'eliminate' all contenders except one. Not by assassination, but by destroying their reputations or forcing them onto paths they could not leave. But for the Imperial crown itself, I suspect that killing is the plan. And I don't have to accede to it."
Varric spoke up gingerly. "It's noble-minded of you to want to keep them both alive, but can that really be done?"
Max exchanged a wry grin with Dorian before chuckling. "Varric, I don't give a tinker's damn about either of them. As far as I'm concerned, they both deserve death for what they've done to their people and their country. But we can't give it to them both. And it's because they both deserve it that I don't want to empower either of them as the unchallenged ruler."
"So you want to pressure them into a marriage?" Dorian guessed. "Gaspard already offered that to Celene in the war. She refused."
"She had leverage then. I bet she doesn't anymore. Why else would she have invited a man for peace talks who, by any reasonable definition of the word, is guilty of high treason? This war wasn't about who would sit on a vacant throne after the previous monarch died. There already was a sitting Empress and he tried to overthrow her with violence. That is treason. Now, I'm sure that Vivienne and others would claim that that's a simplistic Free Marcher way of looking at it, and that in Orlais, things are much more complicated and subtle." He rolled his eyes; that still smarted. "But in my view, that would just be disingenuous obfuscation. If Celene had won the war quickly, she would have executed Gaspard as a traitor, and we all know it. So why is she begging him to come to peace talks?"
"She obviously is in a pretty weak position," Varric said. "She's fought to a stalemate. Not a great look."
"But so has he. That's the definition of a stalemate. And she's still on her throne, so that means his cause has not succeeded. That means he should be the one in the weaker position—unless there is something we're just not seeing."
They all considered Max's words. "Something is certainly odd, Boss," Iron Bull finally replied. "It's odd of her to hold these peace talks as a ball, too, especially at the present moment with Corypheus and all the chaos. Like pretending nothing is wrong." He considered. "That's probably why, in fact."
Max nodded. "That makes sense. A facade of normality and strength over what is really a very weak decision, the peace talks. But it's a facade that is easily seen through if that's all it's meant to mask." He leaned forward again. That was rapidly becoming his "scheming leader" pose, he thought offhandedly. "Orlesian nobles do love their masks," he said to chuckles from the others at the table. "But they don't just mask the obvious. They can also mask something that they really do want kept secret. The obvious thing might even be part of the mask." He gazed thoughtfully at them. "So what could Celene be hiding that she is trying to mask with a fancy-dress ball and peace talks with a traitor?"
Dorian interjected. "You know, amatus, it is at times like this when it's crystal clear that you spent part of your life raised as a noble."
Max chuckled. "I'm glad that my wretched father did something for me that's coming in useful," he said.
Dorian exchanged a pained glance with him. "I feel the same way." He sighed. "But about Celene. There are those in the Inquisition who would claim that she is a pacifist who deeply wishes for peace with Gaspard."
"And you believe that?"
"Not for a second." Dorian smirked. "But I did not want to leave anything out of the conversation."
Max laughed. "It's true. Someone with that temperament would not have vaulted to the peak of the Grand Game. She wouldn't have waged war with the kinds of tactics that we saw the repercussions of in the Dales and heard that she had used in Halamshiral. Whatever is behind this, it is not pacifism."
Solas spoke up for the first time. "On the subject of Halamshiral and the Dales," he began, "there is a third player that we must consider in all of this. Not for the Orlesian throne itself, but as a figure with influence. It is Briala, the elven... former companion of Celene. She has advocated for the elves to have better conditions in Orlais. To the extent that they do—which I will grant is not much—it is due to her past influence on Celene."
"I haven't heard much about her," Max said. "She'll be at the ball?"
"Most likely," Iron Bull said, and Max supposed that as a spy, he would know. "She's a trained bard and a damn good one from reports."
Max sighed. "If we can't back Duke Prosper, I'm sure we can't back her. But she sounds like someone we would want to support in whatever way we can. She's interested in the Dales?"
"Yep, Boss."
Max considered that. People in the Dales, human and elven alike, despised Celene and Gaspard. Some of them were so disgruntled that they had defected to Ferelden and helped it seize territory. Most had not gone that far, but Max had heard the contempt with which even a polite, gently bred man like Fairbanks had spoken of Celene and Gaspard for the destruction their war had wrought. The displaced peasants were far harsher. In Max's opinion, the Dales would not get behind either of them again by choice. The region might be subdued by brutal force—and that would certainly be nothing new, given the atrocities of the War of the Lions—but it would not bend the knee willingly. If they could claw Fairbanks away from Celene's clutches, acquire Briala's alliance, and set them both up as leaders in the Dales, there were possibilities.
"We'll need to seek out Briala at the ball," Max decided. "She could be a powerful ally for us, and if she's sincere about wanting to help the people of the Dales, we have common goals."
"You're thinking of giving her—or pressuring the Orlesian leaders to give her—something in the Dales?" Varric guessed.
"You... might say that." Max's hopes had already progressed rather beyond merely "something in the Dales," but he would not say more just now. "But for any of that to be possible, we need to figure out what's happening with Celene. We need to be able to blackmail her and Gaspard into doing what we want. I just have a very strong suspicion we can do that—that there is something really important that would give us that leverage—but..." He sighed. "Gaspard has apparently made an invitation to us to attend as his guests. That's also odd."
"He might think it would make him look menacing and threatening, that it could imply he had made allies of the Inquisition," Rainier suggested.
"It could, but to Orlesian nobles, that might also look weak. Appearances are everything for these people. How would it look if he, after a stalemate, comes to peace talks with Inquisition muscle? It would look like he couldn't get the terms he wanted with his own might."
"True."
"And there's also the fact that it's widely known the Inquisition has worked with Celene as well. The Dales... incident," Dorian spat. "She paraded Fairbanks around and spoke of us as her allies in all that."
"Exactly," Max agreed. "So if Gaspard's gambit is to make it look like we're his hired muscle, I don't think it would work. Again—we're dealing with a mask—we are a mask in this case, I think—but what is it truly masking?"
They all contemplated this before Varric spoke up. "Leliana said that she thought we could sneak people into the ball. Inky said that shouldn't be possible if her security is solid, which of course proves that it isn't... and that's another question that needs to be answered..." He broke off as something suddenly hit him. From the dawning look on Dorian's face, it seemed to have occurred to him as well, whatever it was. But Varric continued, "But if Leliana knows that, you can bet your ass that Gaspard knows it too. And you can also bet your ass that he sees exactly how weak Celene is to beg him to attend a peace talk. I would be willing to bet—"
"Our ass?" Dorian guessed.
Varric laughed. "I wouldn't include yours without consulting Inky first. But my own ass, let's say—I'd bet that that Gaspard wants us along in order to distract attention from some other scheme of his."
"That's... quite a leap, Varric," Rainier said.
"I may be wrong, but I won't be surprised if I'm right."
"It's something to keep an eye out for," Max said. "If it's true, we need to catch him in it. But you and Dorian suddenly had this look come over your faces like the sun breaking out of clouds. What was that about?"
"Ah," Dorian answered. "It is a thought that occurred to me about Celene. If true, it would explain... quite a lot." He raised an eyebrow and tilted his head. "If your father had poor security, asked a rival to truce discussions when that rival had tried to kill him for years, and used a fancy party to distract people, what would that suggest to you about your father's estate?"
Understanding suddenly dawned in Max's mind. "It would suggest to me that... he was running out of money."
Dorian and Varric nodded emphatically as the others at the table broke into that same look of understanding. "Exactly," Dorian agreed. "Celene may not be holding these peace talks in a stalemate because she loves peace."
"And why should it be a stalemate?" Max added as it hit him. "What would that consist of in this case? He can't encroach any further on territory she holds, and she can't take the territory he holds back? All right, but she is still sitting on the throne. He's the challenger. He has had to draw people to his side. He could have fought to a stalemate because he doesn't have enough soldiers. But Celene? If she can't defeat a rival who doesn't have the men to depose her, it means she can't afford this war anymore."
"It's distinctly possible she has bankrupted the Imperial Treasury," Varric said, eyes wide with shock at the import of that. "I'd say it's a near lock that she has bankrupted House Valmont."
"She is said to be extremely interested in 'arcane' lore and the 'occult,'" Solas said, "and has spent countless amounts of gold on artifacts and books. That obsession would not help her finances."
For the first time in the discussion, Sera spoke up. "I know some Red Jennies at the Winter Palace. They might be able to get into the account books at the ball."
"I wasn't thinking that this ball would be something that would interest you, Sera," Max said.
She shrugged. "It'll be fun to mess with them. And to dig into her dirty secrets and find she's as poor as the people she oppresses. If she is."
"Let's do that, then."
The Wildervale.
Keeper Deshanna Istimaethoriel of Clan Lavellan regarded the messengers with wariness and caution. They were from the Inquisition, which was known in the Free Marches to be a pro-Orlesian organization despite nominally being headed by a Marcher mage.
The Keeper did not consider herself a Marcher, exactly. That was a human designation, referring to human-dominated cultures and cities, and she was of the Dalish. Her people had no fixed home anymore. She certainly knew about the growing conflict between the Inquisition and Viscountess Hawke's allies in the Free Marches, because it was wise for the Dalish to know about shemlen conflicts to avoid being drawn directly into one—and it was true that Hawke had a longstanding treaty with her elven cousins in the Sabrae Clan—but on the whole, tugs-of-war between human great powers were not matters that the Elvhen needed to be involved in, for their own good. Elvhen involvement in human wars and disputes simply gave the humans an easy scapegoat. And while Hawke had been a friend to the Sabrae Clan, whereas the Inquisition was still suspicious, Keeper Istimaethoriel also knew better than to trust everything that one side of a human conflict said about its rival.
Nonetheless, this seemed to be true. The Inquisition all but openly named itself a pro-Orlais organization by declaring the goal of "stabilizing" that country as a "counterpoint" to the forces of Tevinter and the Elder One. Orlais was no friend to elves. Hawke had not been particularly focused on elven concerns as a ruler, except for those that overlapped with the concerns of mages or of her city, but she was a friend of Elvhen rights.
And now, these Inquisition delegates were here to urge the clan to move to the area near Wycome, which seemed very strange to the Keeper.
"Why do you want this clan to migrate to the outskirts of Wycome?" the Keeper asked the lead delegate frostily.
"This is not a matter of something that we want for our own reasons," the delegate, who gave his name as "Painter"—obviously a false name—said. "We simply fear attacks in the area where you currently camp."
"We have avoided negative interactions with humans throughout one war. Why do you think we would be attacked now?" Suspicion mounted for the Keeper. "Is this a hint that the Inquisition intends to attack Kirkwall?"
"The Inquisition has no such plans, I assure you," Painter said. "We would attack Kirkwall only if Kirkwall attacked us first. We want to avoid violent conflict with Viscountess Hawke. Such fighting would only help the Elder One. I speak of an attack by the Venatori or Red Templars. Your patroness has not secured the lands that Kirkwall controls as well as she wants to think."
"She is not my patroness," Keeper Istimaethoriel said coolly. "We have no formal alliance with her and did not send fighters to the war she waged for Andrastian mages. We have not seen excessive numbers of Corypheus's forces in this vicinity, and I think Dalish scouts are at least as competent as Inquisition scouts in detecting such threats."
"I meant no slight to your scouts' capabilities. The threat would come from a surge of forces, not from those already here." Painter spread his hands in supplication. "We have learned that your clan sent an observer to the Conclave at Haven and that this individual was slain in Corypheus's attack. Your First, as I understand it. A terrible loss. Your people are often overlooked in such tragedies. Tell me, since you are not allied with Hawke, do you think that she would support you if the Elder One's forces did attack and you were the first people in their path? She let the Venatori attack Hasmal and then abandon it to lawlessness and savagery, because it was not her ally. She intervened only when the damage was done and it had begun to reflect poorly on her not to be involved, and even then, she did not send her own people to restore the peace."
The Keeper hesitated, considering that. It was uncomfortably true. Hasmal had been occupied by Hawke's enemies during the late stages of the Mage-Templar War, so it was not merely "not her ally." But she still had shrugged at the Venatori attack on the city and sent forces—actually, asked Ferelden and Markham to send forces—to restore order only after civil society had all but disintegrated. Would she actually send aid to save Clan Lavellan, which had no treaty with her, if the Venatori and Red Templars attacked the area where her clan was encamped? And if she did, would it reach them in time? They were not actually that close to Kirkwall, camping in the Wildervale between Kirkwall and the Minanter cities. Troops were busy rebuilding Tantervale and trying to cleanse the battlefield of red lyrium. An attack might pose a very real threat to Clan Lavellan.
The Keeper regarded Painter with less hostility as she replied. "You are asking me to shelter under the Inquisition's banner instead of pursuing a formal alliance with Hawke as Clan Sabrae has. You need to provide me with a reason to do that."
"The Inquisition has resources that Hawke does not. She has an army of several thousand, yes, and many of them are mages. She has those weapons. She has allies here and there in the Free Marches. But the Inquisition fields troops across a larger area, and we have allies and spies in every country of Thedas. We would be able to detect a threat to you quickly and stave it off."
"Wycome is part of Hawke's Marcher military alliance, not the Inquisition."
"I do not mean that you should go into Wycome. That general area is what I meant." Painter put a hand over his heart. "If humans give you trouble, you would have the promise of Inquisition aid."
"I will take your proposal to the clan," the Keeper finally said. "It is a matter we must discuss as a group."
Wycome.
Peony Babbitt, Baroness of Southside, stared at the hooded and cloaked figure who had requested a meeting with her and the other petty nobles of Wycome. The only name this individual would give was "Wingfoot," their face was hidden behind the shadows of the hood and a simple Orlesian mask, and even their voice did not make it clear whether Wingfoot was a man or a woman. When Wingfoot spoke, it was deep and husky, almost as if it were an intentional vocal disguise.
It probably was, and Lady Babbitt supposed that should make her suspicious, but it actually was just interesting. She didn't trust Wingfoot—certainly not—but the mystery and intrigue of it appealed to her.
"I wished to speak to you because of some information I've come by that I believe you ought to know," Wingfoot said in an almost-whisper. "A clan of Dalish elves will be traveling to the vicinity of Wycome in a matter of days."
The nobles murmured among each other, a low rumble. It was clear that the news was not welcome, but no one was calling for anything to be done about the elves' presence. The disguised figure decided to be more aggressive.
Wingfoot continued, "These are elves who have been in a loose and informal association with Hawke and her army of mages. I need not remind you that the mages who deserted from that army and joined the Venatori were led by an elf, by the name of Fiona."
Lady Babbitt spoke up at last. "Are you saying—do you have intelligence that these elves are in league with the Venatori?"
"I am saying that one cannot be too careful in these dark times. The clan had worked with Hawke for several years. Why would they suddenly come here? What is their agenda? There are questions that should be asked about this sudden... migration."
Lady Babbitt spoke again. "I agree that it is suspicious. Wild heathen knife-ears cannot be trusted. But I'm afraid that you have not given us much reason to trust you either, Wingfoot. We do not know your real name or whom you are working for. There are many powers seeking influence in Thedas now. Viscountess Hawke, Ferelden, Orlais, the Inquisition, the Qunari, the Elder One, Tevinter... I assume you do not work for Hawke, or probably Ferelden, but whom do you serve?"
Wingfoot smiled enigmatically. "You might say that I serve Wycome."
"Do you work for Duke Antoine? But why would he not meet with us directly?"
Wingfoot evaded the question. "Consider what you are asking and consider my position. Duke Antoine would not acknowledge employing someone like me. No one would. I could claim to be working for anyone and you would not be able to prove whether I was lying."
The nobles murmured again. This was an uncomfortable point, but they could not argue with it.
"What matters is that I want what is best for this beautiful city. I want to prevent it from making a terrible mistake and pursuing a course that would be ruinous. That is all."
Notes: IMO what we can get "against Celene" in canon is not nearly enough to actually give us any power over a sitting Empress. Gaspard can be blackmailed with conspiracy to commit treason. We don't have anything on Celene that's equally bad, so I have tried to level the scales here a bit. Bankruptcy isn't as bad as treason, of course, but in the context of the Grand Game, I think it would be exceedingly bad-looking. It was actually rather challenging to me to think of blackmail topics (other than the Freemen AU material). I don't think sexual topics would be damaging enough at this level. But once bankruptcy occurred to me, I couldn't look away. It explains an awful lot of Celene's decisions that otherwise exude weakness or obliviousness. I don't believe for one second that her calls for peace with Gaspard at this ball are due to any virtuous character traits she possesses. I think she's run out of money. Even an Empress cannot tax the peasants to death to pay for a war when everything the peasants own has been sacked and burned.