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Inside the ballroom, Bridget found Blackwall standing along the sidelines trying to look inconspicuous. Although how a man as attractive as he was could hope to be overlooked in this crowd of overly painted and perfumed popinjays, Bridget didn't know. His manly good looks were a breath of fresh air in the crowded ballroom. She slipped her arm through his and was relieved to see him smile at her. She knew he was uncomfortable here in the Winter Palace, and put his previous snappishness down to that discomfort.

She squeezed his arm. "You look so happy to be here."

He inched closer so that she could feel the warmth of his body pressed against her. "I am now."

"Have you seen anything?"

"I just witnessed the start of a blood feud between three noble families. Entertaining, if it wasn't so tedious. But as for anything useful … no."

"Hm." Bridget was disappointed but not overly surprised. She hadn't expected the night to be easy, had she? "Will you save me a dance?"

At that he turned, taking one of her gloved hands and lifting it to his lips. "All my dances are yours, my lady."

Bridget barely resisted the temptation to kiss him. "Good."

He cleared his throat and stepped back, to Bridget's mingled disappointment and relief. After all, they couldn't afford to be distracted. "Have you heard the servants whispering?"

"Not really. I've had my hands full with the nobility."

"In that case, I think we should investigate the servants' quarters." He explained about the various conversations he had overheard.

Bridget took the key out of her pocket. "I wonder if that's where this goes to."

"Where did you get that?"

"From an apostate. It's a long story. Will you go find the others?"

"Of course. We'll meet you at the door."

It took some time, but eventually they were assembled at the door. Bridget had already turned the key in the lock, ensuring that it was the right one, and now she pushed the door open.

The door must have been sealed very well, because immediately when it was opened the coppery smell of blood struck them. Bridget moved into the room, motioning Vivienne, who was bringing up the rear, to pull the door closed behind her.

All around them lay the bodies of servants, killed quickly and efficiently, mostly by single stab wounds.

Blackwall nodded grimly. "That explains the incompetence of the servants at the ball."

"Yes," Vivienne agreed, "and the arrogance. They aren't the real servants, and they wish us all to know. Which we do."

"Has no one remarked on it?" Bridget asked.

"They have. They appear to believe Celene has lost her servants in the prosecution of the war, which is a fairly preposterous notion, but has been enough to pacify them. No doubt Briala put the rumor about, to cover her replacement of the servants."

"So you suspect the fair Briala of being poised to end Celene's reign?" Varric asked.

"She appears marginally more likely to do so than Gaspard."

Bridget didn't disagree, but she was too shocked by what she was seeing to engage with the conversation. She was used to death by now—but that was on battlefields. This had been murder, brutal and cold. "Why would they have done this?" she asked.

"You always kill the servants first, my dear, lest they run and warn someone." Vivienne glanced over the bodies with a noble's callous attitude toward elves.

"The defenseless are always the first casualties of war," Blackwall agreed. He reached for Bridget's hand, squeezing it, and that was a small measure of comfort … but not much.

She couldn't stand here, not in the middle of all this. She had to keep moving and find out what had happened, and why.

They made their way through the servants' quarters, finding more dead, but no more answers. A door at the end of the warren of rooms opened on the kitchen gardens, and through them the path led to the formal gardens. Bridget tried not to think about how long they had been away from the ball. Surely their absence would be noticed. They had to hurry—but they had to find out, as well.

The formal gardens had been empty of bodies, but one awaited them in front of the fountain. No spray of blood here, just a dagger with an intricately carved handle protruding from the corpse's back. And this was no servant—he was human, and dressed like the nobility.

Blackwall hunkered down next to the body, careful not to disturb anything. "What was he doing here?"

Vivienne bent over, squinting a bit in the dim torchlight as she looked over the man's clothes. "This is an emissary from the Council of Heralds. Curious to find him here."

Bridget saw that what she had taken for nobles' clothes was in fact livery.

Looking more carefully at the handle, Vivienne shook her head. "Perhaps I have been hasty. This knife bears the Chalons family crest. Gaspard's crest."

"So one more time we have clues pointing both ways." Varric frowned thoughtfully. "If I was writing this, that would mean a third party was trying to deflect suspicion from themselves."

"Grand Duchess Florianne, possibly?"

"My dear, what could she have to gain?" Vivienne protested.

"The throne? If Celene dies and Gaspard is blamed for it …"

"Florianne has never shown the faintest sign of such an ambition. She lives for parties!"

"People change," Blackwall said brusquely.

"I suppose," Vivienne conceded, albeit reluctantly.

From the darkness, a servant came running, and behind her a troop of soldiers, Tevinters from the armor, one of whom slashed his pair of daggers across the servant's back. She fell without another sound, her blood spreading out from beneath her fallen body.

The rest of the Tevinters took aggressive stances, and Bridget's team immediately prepared for battle. She wondered if the sounds could be heard in the ballroom, and surmised that any guest who might glimpse them would think it was just a pageant staged by Celene for their entertainment. At least, she hoped that was what they would think, rather than rolling their eyes and whispering that wasn't it just like the Inquisition to brawl so vulgarly in the middle of a party. The second one seemed more likely, and only hastened Bridget's urgent desire to return to the ballroom before their absence was remarked on.

When it was over, they straightened themselves up as best they could, although Bridget was certain Josephine would despair of them, and found a way through a side window back inside the palace. The rooms were silent, much of the furniture shrouded in sheets, and Bridget wondered why anyone needed so much clearly unused space as this.

An elf awaited them, wearing a mixture of elven servants' clothes and fancy garments.

"Briala," Vivienne said in a low voice.

Even as she spoke, Briala came toward them. Her gaze flicked over the others, resting a moment on Vivienne, before settling on Bridget. "Fancy meeting you here."

"I might say the same."

"Once this palace was my home." Briala looked wistfully around her. "I admit I miss it occasionally." She looked back at Bridget. "And you, Inquisitor, shouldn't you be dancing? What will the nobility say?"

"Yes, no doubt there's a line of people breathlessly awaiting dances with me."

"You might be surprised. You are the novelty du jour, after all." Briala motioned Bridget to step out onto a moonlit balcony. In a tone that seemed more sincere than her previous mocking comments, Briala said, "Thank you. I came down to save or avenge my missing people; you have done that for me."

"Your people? I thought these were the palace servants, and those serving were your people."

"They are all my people, Inquisitor. All of us working together toward a common goal." She changed tone again, this time brisk and businesslike. "The Council of Heralds emissary in the courtyard—that isn't your handiwork, is it?"

"Is it yours?"

"What purpose would there be in that?"

"What purpose could I have?"

They held each other's gazes, until at last Briala nodded. "You're right. Celene is better for you than Gaspard, whatever he might claim. And I have no wish to see Gaspard on the throne, either. He is too much a soldier to care about domestic issues such as the rights of elves. In that case, it is someone else who threatens the peace of this evening with Tevinter soldiers and assassins."

Bridget was tempted for a moment to share her suspicions of Florianne, but she didn't know Briala well enough to be able to trust her with such suppositions. After all, whatever she said, Briala could still be the one in league with Corypheus. It wouldn't do to tip the Inquisition's hand now.

Briala wasn't paying attention to Bridget, anyway. She was looking around wistfully again. Almost to herself, she said, "There was a time when Celene trusted me, when I would have had my spies at her disposal and would already have known from which direction the danger threatens." Her face hardened. "Until she betrayed me to save her political reputation."

"You're angry."

"Not angry enough to jeopardize her life—or her rule. I know what side is best for me and my people. Besides, it wasn't personal. It's the Game. The Game is how all Orlesians justify these things to themselves."

"And if Gaspard wins tonight at the negotiations?"

Briala smiled. "Why do you think I am here at the ball, rather than speaking with Celene in private, Inquisitor? To gain access to Gaspard. He may not be as progressive or persuadable as his cousin, but with time—and sufficient blackmail—he might be convinced to work with us."

"Not a very solid hope to hang on."

"Hence my concern for Celene's well-being." She gave a brief tight smile, without humor. "I shouldn't keep you any longer from the ball, Inquisitor. Your reputation will not be helped if they have to look for you to gawk at and gossip about you."

Bridget nodded and ducked back through the window into the deserted hallway. Her people were waiting farther down, near a door, and she joined them, shaking her head when they asked to be caught up. "I'd be very surprised if it was her."

Vivienne was skeptical of her ability to make the determination, Bridget could tell, but Blackwall and Varric both nodded, taking her word for it.

They scattered as they re-entered the ball, to make it less obvious that they were all coming in together. Bridget found Gaspard at her elbow almost as soon as she had stepped through the doorway. "My friend! There you are! Come and have a drink."

Privately, Bridget thought it sounded as though Gaspard had already had more than sufficient, but she smiled and allowed him to lead her to an elf carrying a tray of champagne. Gaspard tossed his off in three quick swallows, while Bridget took a sparing sip.

"The Court appears to find you quite charming, you know, Inquisitor," he said, putting the empty glass back on the tray and waving the elf off. He sighed. "If only I knew how to be charming. My cousin Celene—now, she is charming. She charmed the Council of Heralds, you know, taking the throne that rightfully should have been mine."

"Oh?" Bridget said noncommittally.

"Yes. She is a politician, while I—" He puffed up his chest. "I am a man of action. And I intend to take my crown back."

Bridget wondered uneasily if he was about to confess to being involved in the assassination plot. That would certainly make things easier, although who would believe her if she reported his claim? "How?" she asked. "Are you claiming her crown, or her head?"

Gaspard gaped at her. "Her head? Who said anything about her head?" He shook his violently. "My dear Inquisitor, if Celene loses her head, I assure you it will not be my doing." With a little shrug, he added, "I would not weep particularly hard at her demise, but I have no intention of being the cause of it."

"But you threatened the Council of Heralds."

"Of course I did. Most of them are Celene's lapdogs—it was the only way I could hope to gain their cooperation." He puffed himself up again. "The Empire has been mired in intrigue for too long. We need a man of action at the helm. Yes. A man of action."

"What actions do you have in mind, exactly?"

"The Empire is in decline. A disgrace, really. We cannot allow Nevarra and Ferelden to continue to chip away at our borders as they have been doing."

"So you want to fight more wars?"

"War is what I know, Inquisitor. I intend to prove that skilled chevaliers are better than diplomacy."

Bridget restrained herself from raising her eyebrows in disbelief. Even she knew more about statecraft than that. "And the negotiations?" she asked. "How will they go?"

"Oh, we will whittle one another down with words until we are bored into agreement. Celene will talk circles around us, the elf will glower, and I … I will get very drunk. Somehow, by the time they stop serving drinks, a war will be ended."

It sounded like an incredibly ineffient way to run an empire, and one with little concern for those who lived in it, but Bridget knew better than to voice that thought in the middle of the ball. "What calamities befall us if they stop serving drinks early?"

Gaspard laughed. "If we're lucky, another war will break out." He sighed. "I cannot abide the Game, my friend, that is no secret. I prefer my enemies armed and facing me. I like clear winners and losers."

This man would be a disaster as leader of Orlais, Bridget was certain of that now. "Well, I will leave you to get started on your drinking," she said to him, a little bit sadly. She liked him much better than she did most at this party, but she couldn't support him.

"By all means." As she walked away, he was already in search of another elf with drinks.

Bridget hadn't gone far before she found Celene's three handmaidens in front of her, skirts swaying as they bent back and forth, gloved hands fluttering in front of them. "Oh, Inquisitor! There you are!"

She had a moment of panic, not wanting to admit that she had been gone, afraid that if they had noticed so had Celene. "Uh … yes, so I am," she stammered.

"And here we are!"

They all looked at her expectantly. She cast about for a conversational topic, at last settling on the question no one had yet answered to her satisfaction. "Tell me, why hold peace talks during a ball?"

The expectant looks changed to confusion, and a little pity. "Naturally when one has a moment of great solemnity, it should be celebrated with revels and feasts. And a joyous occasion calls for reflection and contemplation."

"Of course. I should have thought of that myself."

"No doubt you would have, Inquisitor," they assured her. "After all, we must never forget that life is both bitter and sweet."

It was possibly the best explanation for Orlais Bridget had heard yet. She filed it away to remember later. "What does the Empress hope to accomplish in the negotiations?"

"Peace, Inquisitor. Only that."

Peace on her own terms, of course, Bridget knew.

"The war must end tonight," the ladies continued. "And Celene must prevail. The Grand Duke has no skill at the Game. He would be eaten alive were he to take the throne, and so subtly that he would have no idea it was happening until it was too late."

Bridget could readily believe that. There was no doubt in her mind who the Inquisition should support in the negotiations—if they could only keep her from being killed first.