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Bridget wasn't ready. Her uniform was buttoned, her hair was done—in its usual braid and twist, nothing fancy. They had deliberated about the style, but not knowing what she would be called upon to do in the pursuit of the assassin, had decided simplest was best. So she looked ready … but she didn't feel it. Truthfully, she couldn't imagine ever feeling ready.
If Josephine, usually so unflappable, didn't seem so nervous, Bridget thought maybe she could let her fears settle. But Josephine was flitting around making minute adjustments to everyone's uniform, writing last-minute notes on her board, giving Bridget rapid-fire instructions in an accent so thickened Bridget was hard put to understand half of it.
Leliana finally caught her by the shoulders. "Josie. They're not going to have us imprisoned and executed if Blackwall's sash isn't straight."
Blackwall let out a strangled noise that to Bridget sounded as though he almost believed Leliana's scenario was possible. She reached for his hand and squeezed it and was surprised not to feel an answering squeeze. He must be more nervous than she'd imagined. And here she had been counting on him to be her rock as she navigated these treacherous waters! She glanced at him, shaking their joined hands a little. "You all right?"
"Fine. Just anxious to get started."
"You're not alone," Cullen said. "Josephine, isn't that the carriages I hear outside?"
She looked up from Varric's sleeve, pulling an infinitesimal speck of lint off it. "Oh! It does sound like them, doesn't it?"
"Then can we go?" There was barely controlled impatience in Cullen's voice.
"By all means."
There was some jockeying for position in the carriages. Josephine had very much wanted Bridget to ride with herself, Cullen, and Leliana, no doubt to receive a great deal of last-minute advice. To Bridget's relief, Blackwall refused to let go of her hand, so she found herself with Blackwall, Varric, and Cullen, instead. She hoped the other three ladies enjoyed each other's company on the ride over. Vivienne had been very silent about this evening; Bridget had no idea if the mage had her own agendas for the ball or not—and she didn't care, as long as Vivienne was available when she was needed.
The ride over was entertaining, Varric exerting himself to be his most charming in order to counteract everyone's nerves. He seemed the least affected by the grandeur of the occasion, and Bridget smiled at him affectionately. Dear Varric, at home everywhere from the seediest bars to the Empress's palace. She was very glad to have brought him.
At last the carriage rolled to a stop, and a liveried servant opened the door. Bridget climbed out first, accepting the servant's hand to help her down because it seemed to be expected of her. Over his shoulder, she caught Josephine's approving glance.
Josephine took Bridget's arm as they approached the Palace. "Remember," she said in a rapid whisper. "The political situation here hangs by a thread. Tonight is about treaty negotiations between Gaspard and Celene, and the Empress is very concerned that our presence here might jeopardize the already shaky peace among her people."
"Then why is she letting us come?" Bridget asked. She knew all of this, or she thought she did, but a quick refresher couldn't hurt, and it would make Josephine happy.
"On sufferance. We are Grand Duke Gaspard's guests. He was only too happy to invite us. It took very little nudging." Josephine smiled.
"Why does he want us here when Celene doesn't?"
"Because we allow him to gain an opportunity—we could conceivably be convinced to act as his allies, which strengthens his position, or we merely upset the balance ofpower, leaving a space for him to move into. Either way, we offer the potential for him to improve his position."
The soldiers flanking them had moved ahead now, entering through the gates. Josephine let go of Bridget's arm and stepped back, making it clear that Bridget was to enter alone. She was the Inquisitor, after all, even if she was suddenly not feeling very Inquisitorial.
Josephine was behind her, she knew, and behind Josephine Cullen and Blackwall and the others, but as the soldiers stopped and turned sharply to create a passage for her, she felt very alone, very singled out and vulnerable. It suddenly occurred to her—everyone here would know she was a mage. She would be an easy target for anyone who thought a mage had no business heading the Inquisition, and there were many who felt that way.
A masked man came toward her. Everyone at the ball was wearing masks, she could see, now that she was amongst the guests. She was glad Josephine hadn't asked that the Inquisition party wear them; this was going to be a difficult enough night without her field of vision constricted by a mask.
This particular masked man in front of her was wearing a shiny, elegant, perhaps a bit overcomplicated set of armor. He must be Duke Gaspard, she thought.
The rest of the guests had shrunk back a bit, no one wanting to be the first to approach the upstarts from the Inquisition, no doubt. But Gaspard walked toward Bridget freely, without a moment's hesitation.
"Inquisitor Trevelyan! It is an honor to meet you at last."
"The honor is mine—" Suddenly the proper form of address for the Grand Duke had fled entirely from Bridget's mind. She searched her memory frantically for it, and when she couldn't remember, simply bowed.
He nodded in response, gesturing for her to walk with him. The other guests parted to make way for them, and Bridget could hear whispers following in her wake, although not what was being said.
She was trying to pay attention to the Grand Duke, anyway, who was saying, "The rumors comg from the Western Approach say you battled an army of demons."
"Yes."
"Impressive." He tilted his head in her direction, saying more softly, "If you can do that, imagine what you could accomplish with the full support of the rightful Emperor of Orlais."
Since Bridget's advisors were split on which side they felt comfortable supporting in this argument, they had asked her to avoid committing herself as best she could. "I can see many benefits to such an alliance," she said carefully.
"In that case, keep the image firmly in your mind. We may be able to bring it to life before the end of the evening."
Bridget glanced sharply at him, wishing she could see beneath the mask. Was he plotting Celene's murder? It made sense. Although, if he was intending to gain the throne by murder, why would he have cost himself so many men on the battlefields?
"I am not a man who forgets his friends, Inquisitor," Gaspard continued. "You help me, I'll help you."
The implication in the reverse seemed clear, as well. Fortunately, they had reached the bottom of a set of wide white marble steps that curved up toward the main ballroom.
"My lady." Gaspard bowed before her. Bridget couldn't help comparing him to Blackwall, whose gruff "my lady" never failed to touch her. Gaspard added, "Are you prepared to shock the court by walking into the Grand Ball with a hateful usurper? They will tell stories of it into the next age."
Bridget devoutly hoped not. But Leliana had whispered to her that Gaspard liked audacity and playfulness. Those weren't native to Bridget's character, but for the Inquisition, she would try. She smiled at the Grand Duke. "I can't imagine that crowd has seen anything better than us in their entire lives."
Bless Leliana. Gaspard laughed delightedly, holding his arm out to her. "Clearly, you are a woman after my own heart, my lady." As she took his arm, he said softly, "Perhaps there is a matter you could help me look into this evening. This elven woman, Briala—I suspect she intends to disrupt the negotiations."
"I'll keep an eye on her," Bridget promised. It was easily done, since she had intended to do so anyway. "As discreetly as possible, of course."
"Of course." Gaspard sighed. "Between you and me, I detest the Game … but one must play it and play it well, or else one's enemies gain too great an advantage. We don't want to look like villains, do we, my lady?"
"We certainly do not," she agreed.
They both paused in front of the gates, liveried men bowing before them as they hastened to swing the gates open.
Gaspard glanced at Bridget. "We are keeping the Court waiting, Inquisitor. Shall we?"
She smiled at him. "We shall."
Blackwall hated watching Bridget on the arm of that poncy peacock. He had worried so much about how he would manage this ball without the ghost of Thom Rainier haunting him that he had never considered the torture of watching his beautiful lady be paraded around and ogled by the Orlesian nobility.
It was almost a relief when the gates closed behind Bridget and Grand Duke Gaspard, leaving Blackwall and the others in the gardens for the moment. They would all be formally announced in a little while, but for now he preferred to remain outside in the cool of the evening. He would be stuck in the overly perfumed heated air of the ballroom soon enough.
Behind him, he heard two people murmuring together about the battlefields. One said that he had heard the bodies were "beyond counting". Blackwall smothered a grim smile, not at the carnage, but at the idea of a fancily-dressed popinjay like that ever beholding such carnage himself. They liked to talk about the soldiers at these events, but few of them could handle real battle.
The companion of the first man replied softly, "Surely the Empress will put an end to the war tonight."
"Pray, my friend," the first voice replied. "If the Maker does not hear us now … just pray."
That, at least, was a sentiment Blackwall heartily agreed with. He hadn't had much contact with the Maker in some time, but on the journey here he had relearned how to pray. Not for himself; whatever came to him, he richly deserved. But for Bridget, who didn't deserve to have her heart broken. He prayed it wouldn't have to be.
"Warden Blackwall, is it?" A woman in a deep purple gown came up to him, waving a fan in front of her face. "You must be! I had heard about your …" She dropped her gaze to his beard, and flushed.
"Warden Blackwall, at your service, your ladyship."
"Oh, aren't you gallant?" The fan moved faster. "Do tell me about the Grey Wardens. What are they like?"
He resisted the urge to roll his eyes only by an instant. "Well, I'm afraid we're less exciting than we seem."
"I'm sure that's not true!" She slipped an arm through his.
Blackwall remembered the days when fruit like this fell into Thom Rainier's lap this way all the time. He had plucked and tasted and thrown away with abandon. How cheap it all seemed now, compared to the love of a woman like Bridget. She could never have loved Thom Rainier.
The woman on his arm giggled at him. "Tell me all about yourself, Warden. Do I call you Warden?"
"If you like. I'm certain I have no stories that would entertain a lady like you."
"Are you Orlesian? You … sound Orlesian." She said it rather doubtfully.
Considering how hard he had worked to take any trace of Orlesian accent out of his voice, he hoped it was wishful thinking on her part. "I'm afraid not. Marcher."
"Marcher? Like the … Inquisitor?"
"Yes, although she's from Ostwick and I'm from Markham."
The fan moved rapidly as the lady tried to pretend she knew the difference. At last she gave up. "Oh. I've never been there."
He didn't insult her by asking which one. "That was a long time ago, your ladyship. Another life."
"So mysterious! Do tell."
"I'm sad to disappoint you, your ladyship. I was born in Markham, joined the Grey Wardens, came to Ferelden, and eventually joined the Inquisition. A simple story; nothing mysterious about it."
"So you say, but I'm sure there's mystery about you, and I'm going to find out what it is." She tapped him on the shoulder and hurried off, still giggling.
Blackwall hoped she might trip on her ridiculously high heels and break something and have to go home, but she didn't. He turned as he heard the Inquisition called; it was time to enter the ball.