Blackwall tried to be unobtrusive, to blend into the crowd and act as though he was nothing interesting to see, but he hadn't considered the Orlesian interest in the Inquisition in general and Bridget in specific. People kept stopping him to ask questions, and even though he answered as briefly as he could, still his heart pounded after every interaction. It had been such a mistake to allow Bridget to talk him into coming. After all, she was doing fine on her own, mingling with the nobility. She hadn't needed him, he told himself.

A nobleman accosted him, full of questions about Skyhold, which Blackwall answered with as little enthusiasm as he could show and still be within the bounds of politeness. He had no wish to be on the receiving end of Josephine's displeasure, as keyed up as she was over this event.

The noble was looking at him quizzically, dark eyes narrowing behind his mask. "You look very familiar, sir. Surely … Lady Fresse's garden party?"

"I'm afraid you're mistaken. I've never been to a garden party, or heard of Lady Fresse." The latter was true, the first a falsehood. But Blackwall's last garden party had been long years ago. Surely he couldn't be recognized after such a long time, he thought.

"No?" the noble repeated, doubtfully. "Ah! I have it. Lord Rudalt de Lancre—I have seen you in his company before, no?"

Blackwall remembered a de Lancre, but he had been aged, a cantankerous old man who still thought himself a general. This must be a relative, whom thankfully he didn't know. He shook his head. "I do not believe we've met, my lord. I'm just a Grey Warden," he added, hoping that would close off the line of questioning.

"A Grey Warden? Odd. Your face is so familiar." The noble frowned. "Perhaps it's just the lack of a mask." He peered more closely at Blackwall's face, and Blackwall willed himself not to flinch, or run. "Around the eyes, there. Yes. Perhaps without that beard …"

"I've worn this beard since I was old enough to grow one, my lord." Another lie. Although the real Blackwall had been heavily bearded, so perhaps it was true for him, at least.

The noble snapped his fingers at a passing elf, who held out a tray of wine-glasses. Rather sulkily, Blackwall noticed. Usually those who served at the Winter Palace were better trained than to allow their emotions to show.

"More wine," the noble said, quaffing a glass with satisfaction and taking another. "It will come to me, my friend," he promised Blackwall, who devoutly hoped his 'friend' would pass out from too much wine long before he managed to cause trouble with some recognition, real or imagined.

"Well, you're making friends, I see," said a familiar voice behind him, and he turned in relief and pleasure to see Bridget approaching.

"Not as fast as you are."

"Yes, it's going better than I'd anticipated."

"Then you should get back out there."

Bridget shook her head. "I needed a breather. There are a lot of people here, and I … am not used to this." She reached for his hand and clung to it. "I'm so glad you're here."

"Then so am I, my lady." Even if they would both live to regret it later. "And I'm ready for anything, whenever you need me. Just give the word."

She sighed. "What do you think about all this scheming and politics?"

Blackwall snorted. "I think I'd rather be anywhere else. At least in the Wilds, a bear might eat you, but he'll be straightforward about it."

"I'm not sure that would be a comfort to his meal while in progress."

"Perhaps not." He smiled. "Still … I'll be happy when we've saved the Empress and gone back to where things make sense."

"You don't think we have any business getting involved in the negotiations?"

"I can't say that I do. So Celene stole the throne, seduced her way to it—however she got it, she has it, and she's done a good job with it, so I say leave her to it. She's proven that she's the perfect mix of strength, cunning, and grace that Orlais needs." Thom Rainier's trouble had all come from backing Gaspard against Celene—or being paid to do so, which was worse. Blackwall was all for Celene, and for staying out of Orlesian politics for the rest of his life.

"And Gaspard?"

"Like crowning a bull," he said, and instantly wished he hadn't. How should he know that?

But Bridget appeared to see nothing amiss in what he'd said. She nodded, and stepped closer, her hand stealing around his arm, her body very near his. "So …" she said softly. "The Silverite Wings of Valor? Do tell. What did you get that for?"

Oh, by the Void. Of course she would want to know—but did it have to come up so quickly, before he'd had a chance to prepare a response? Caught flat-footed, he said lamely, "For … valor?"

Bridget raised her eyebrows. "Care to elaborate?"

"It was a long time ago. Back when we didn't stop to boast about past victories when there was an assassin on the loose."

Stung, she dropped her hand from his arm and stepped back. "I see." In a more formal tone, she asked, "What's the word? Have you seen anything worth noting?"

He told her about the sulky elf, with a word about why that was unusual, and she nodded. "I've heard others complaining about the service, as well. I'll look into it. Anything else? Anyone I should question?"

"Why don't you ask Josephine? I'm not well acquainted with Orlesian nobility," he snapped, and instantly regretted it.

"Thank you for the advice. I hadn't thought of that," Bridget replied, the sarcasm dripping from her tone like icicles. She stalked off, her back stiff, before he could apologize, and he wanted to kick himself for letting his own issues make this harder for her. He set out to go find some elven servants, in order to try to make it up to her.

The more he watched, the more concerned he became. The elves were hiding in corners whispering, rudely brushing past guests … all things they would normally have been fired for. Or worse. Two of them went by him, and he followed, close enough to hear one whisper, "He hasn't made the pickup. It's been hours."

The other replied, "He went into the servants' wing. Nobody's come out of there all night."

"I'll tell Briala we have a situation."

Briala? The elven ambassador? Well, that made sense—if anyone could rile up and embolden the elves, she could. But what were they to pick up, and why had no one come out of the servants' wing?

He found another pair of elves in a corner, ostensibly serving slices of ham and bread and cheese, but they snatched the tray away as he came close to them, turning their backs as if they hadn't seen him, whispering with one another.

"The package is in the guest wing. Upper floor."

"The one off the garden?"

The first one turned her head over her shoulder, saw him listening, and glared, so Blackwall moved off. Guest wing, now? The Inquisition party were going to have to absent themselves from the ball for quite some little time, it appeared. The nobility would notice, and they wouldn't like it.

A couple of nobles in the garden were standing to the side, whispering, looking distressed. Blackwall wandered that way, around behind a pillar so he wouldn't be seen.

"You must be mistaken."

"No, I saw it," insisted the second man. The voice was vaguely familiar to Blackwall, but he refused to get sidetracked by that, especially when the man continued, "I'm quite certain it was blood on the tiles."

Blood. On a night when there was an assassin on the loose. That couldn't be a coincidence.

The first noble clucked his tongue in annoyance. "If they are playing the Game, they are not doing it very well. You do not leave evidence—not if you play to win."

"Perhaps they're playing a different game. With Gaspard and that elf woman here, the only one playing to win was Celene."

If Celene was having people killed, then was she truly in danger? Perhaps they had been lured here under false pretences. Blackwall sighed, wishing for a straightforward fight.

Bridget wasn't allowed to fume over Blackwall's inexplicable attitude for long. Shortly after she had stalked away from him, three ladies in identical dresses and masks floated in front of her, their hands raised like butterflies in front of their bodices.

"My lady! My lady Inquisitor!"

They seemed to speak as one. At least, Bridget was hard put to tell which of them was speaking at a time.

"May we have a word? It is very important."

"Of course. I am at your service, ladies."

They curtsyed as one, too. "The Empress has sent us with a message for you."

"Does the Empress often send you with her messages?"

The three of them looked at one another, conferring silently, then back at Bridget, nodding. "You see, we wear the masks of House Valmont. They signify that we are public faces of the Empress."

"In that case, I am honored, as always, to hear from Her Majesty."

"Oh, she is the honored one, Inquisitor! Empress Celene is eager to assist the Herald of Andraste in her holy endeavor."

Bridget had rather hoped the Herald of Andraste bit had been retired when she became Inquisitor, but apparently not. "How nice."

Ignoring her vague remark, the ladies continued, "The Empress will pledge her full support to the Inquisition as soon as the usurper Gaspard is defeated."

As prices went, it was fairly predictable—and understandable. But Bridget had no intention of committing herself, or the Inquisition, in this conversation. "That's a generous offer."

"The Empress believes whole-heartedly that the Inquisition is our best hope for peace in these difficult times."

Translated, Bridget assumed that meant Celene was more than happy to have someone else fight Corypheus so she didn't have to.

"She looks forward to cementing a formal alliance … as soon as Gaspard is out of the way." The ladies looked at Bridget long enough to be certain the message had been well and truly delivered, then ended the interview, bowing, and floated off together.

Her head was spinning when they left, so she was relieved to see Cullen nearby. He looked anything but pleased to be at the ball. Several young women, and a couple of young men, were hovering around him, looking fascinated, and he kept frowning at them. He greeted Bridget with a much wider smile than she usually got from him. "Do you need something? Tell me you need something." He shook his head, steering her a little away from his entourage and lowering his voice. "The sooner we track down this infiltrator, the better."

"Have you noticed anything out of the ordinary?"

"Not yet." He frowned. "It would be easier if people would stop talking to me."

"It's a ball, Cullen! They're here to talk to people. I suppose you could try dancing," she said teasingly.

"Surely you jest."

"No advice for me, then?"

"Hardly. Orlesian social events do not fall within my area of expertise. But … remember that there are few people here we can trust. Be careful."

"I will," she assured him. "Fortunately for me, I don't seem to have quite your following. Who are all those people?"

He grimaced. "I don't know, but they will not leave me alone, no matter how hard I try to put them off."

"You could consider enjoying yourself." Bridget chuckled at the look he gave her.

"At this point, the headache I'm developing is preferable to the company."

"Well, then, in that case, I'm sorry I have to abandon you to them."

"Inquisitor!" he called after her, but she smiled and waved him back to his entourage, enjoying the sight of the serious Cullen surrounded by light-hearted party guests.

After she left Cullen, she went in search of Leliana, looking for her spymaster's guidance.

Leliana was pleased to see her as well. "I have been looking for you. You have done well so far." They walked together. Leliana gazed down at the shoes of a woman they passed, and nudged Bridget. "Look at those slippers. Trimmed with pearls and emeralds." She shook her head and clucked her tongue. "And those buckles. Toss her into the lake, and she'll sink right to the bottom. What a disaster."

Bridget frowned at her. "There's a Tevinter assassin on the loose, and you're concerned about shoes?"

Leliana shrugged, chuckling. "Everyone needs a hobby. Besides, you can learn a great deal about a person from their clothing."

"Such as?"

"Gold and jewels on a dancing slipper—a slipper is easily lost, and even more easily soiled. Lady Cambienne is unconcerned with the possibility of losing the shoe or damaging it. It's a vulgar display of wealth any way you look at it. But when you know as well that Lady Cambienne's family has recently lost most of its holdings, the grandness of the shoe becomes quite intriguing. How did she acquire it? What has she done? Who has she bedded? Very useful questions, don't you think?"

Bridget looked at her with curiosity. "You seem different here. More … approachable, perhaps."

"This is Halamshiral, Inquisitor, the Imperial Court. The beating heart of the Great Game. All this—the smiles and the small talk—it is a dance. And like any dance, it can be learned. And when you are good at it …" Her eyes were lit from within, bright briliiant blue. "Oh, what fun it is."

It seemed to Bridget very like what she felt sometimes when she used her magic. She said as much to Leliana, who nodded.

"Likely so. Oh, I do like that imagery. Yes."

"Have you seen anything?"

Leliana shook her head. "Halamshiral is lousy with secrets and scheming … but no sign of our Tevinter infiltrator, I'm afraid." She looked around to see who was nearby, and drew Bridget into a convenient antechamber. "There is one thing I wanted to talk to you about particularly. But first—what did the Duke say?"

"He points the finger at Ambassador Briala."

"Naturally he does. Anything else?"

Bridget relayed what she had learned about Florianne.

"Most interesting. I cannot imagine Florianne taking an interest in politics … but she bears watching."

"What was this other thing you wanted to talk to me about?"

"Empress Celene is fascinated by mysticism—foreseeing the future, speaking with the dead." She grimaced. "That sort of rubbish." An even more sour look crossed her face. "She has an 'occult advisor', an apostate who charmed the Empress and key members of the court as if by magic."

"Blood magic?" Bridget echoed doubtfully. "In the Imperial Court?"

"Yes, you would think there would be systems in place to prevent such things, wouldn't you?" She shook her head. "I've had dealings with this apostate in the past. She is ruthless and intelligent and capable of anything."

Not unlike Leliana herself, Bridget thought. "How can Celene openly keep an apostate in the Imperial Court? Surely she would rather use a Circle mage in that position?"

"The Empress's skirts are wide, Inquisitor, more than wide enough for a clever apostate to hide behind. And of course, with the Circles in rebellion, technically now every mage is an apostate—even you. The word has lost much of its strength. At any rate, she is worth investigating. We can't be sure of anything here. And in the meanwhile, you should look into the passage in the guest wing. I can get you inside—just be careful."

Bridget had no intention of being anything other than careful. She made her way through the guest wing carefully, studying things as well as she could while being aware of the time passing. If the Court noticed she was gone, it would look suspicious, and she couldn't risk tipping their hand, not knowing who was involved. She didn't find much. Some secrets to turn in to Leliana, and some more indications that the elves were well and truly under Briala's thumb, but she wasn't sure that meant Briala was the assassin.

As she closed the door of the guest wing behind her, a cool and mocking voice spoke from the shadow of the stairs. "Well, well. What have we here?"

A beautiful, if remarkably overdressed, woman came down the stairs toward her. It was as if she had put on every piece of finery she could lay her hands on—and yet the abundance of clothes and ornaments didn't detract from her exotic beauty. Hair as black and glossy as a raven's wing, eyes as golden as a cat's. This had to be the apostate Leliana had mentioned.

"The leader of the new Inquisition, fabled Herald of the faith," the apostate continued. It felt as though every word had been carefully chosen to insult Bridget personally. "Delivered from the grasp of the Fade by the Hand of Blessed Andraste herself."

"It was the Divine," Bridget corrected stiffly.

"Which does not make for half so enticing a story." The apostate gave a chilly smile. "Now, what could bring such an exalted creature here to the Imperial court, I wonder. Do you even know?"

Bridget forced a smile. The woman was clearly trying to provoke her, and she would resist that as long as she could. "We may never know," she said lightly. "Courtly intrigues and all that."

"Such intrigues obscure much, but not all." She nodded her head, slowly, as if conferring a great favor. "I am Morrigan. Some call me advisor to Empress Celene on matters of the arcane."

Tempted though she was to tell Morrigan what Leliana had called her, Bridget nodded in return, aping the other woman's grandeur.

"You have been very busy this evening, poking about in the dark corners of the palace. Perhaps you and I hunt the same prey."

"Do we?"

"You are being coy, Inquisitor."

"I am being careful, Morrigan."

Morrigan nodded. "That is not unwise, here of all places. Allow me to speak first, then." She paused, leading Bridget to a vantage point from which they could see anyone approaching them. "Recently," Morrigan continued in a lower voice, "I found, and killed, an unwelcome guest within these walls. An agent of Tevinter." She reached out, placing a key in the middle of Bridget's gloved palm. "I took this from his body."

"This is a key to what?"

"I cannot say. I had intended to discover that answer. Yet if Celene is in danger, I cannot leave her side long enough to search. You can. She is safe enough for the moment, but I must return to her anon." Morrigan frowned. "'Twould be a great fool who strikes at her in public, in front of all her court and the Imperial guard, but that does not mean it will not be attempted."

"If you hadn't killed the agent, we might have all the answers we need," Bridget said.

She had wondered if Morrigan would take offense, but the apostate nodded. "I would not have slain him on sight had he not attacked me first and left me no other choice. 'Tis a pity." She shook her head. "I did not know whence he came until after he was dead. I regret that I could not capture him alive." Morrigan gave Bridget a sidelong look. "What intentions the Imperium has here, I suspect you know far better than I."

Bridget looked down at the key in her hand. "I'll find out what this goes to."

"Proceed with caution, Inquisitor. Enemies abound—not all of them aligned with Tevinter."

As Morrigan glided away from her, Bridget wondered—was she one of those enemies?