It was dark by the time they arrived back and Alistair had mostly, but not entirely, come out of whatever state he'd been in leaving the Fort. Ten went to go up the stairs to their wing, but Alistair paused, keeping hold of her hand as she tried to walk off.

"I.. uh… I need to have a nice little chat with the master of the house," he said, the first words out of his mouth since they left the fort. He tugged her back by the hand he was still holding, and she went.

"Long overdue," Ten said. She pulled the gauntlet from his left hand and started on the buckles under that arm. This time he rested his elbow on the top of her head.

"Long. Look, I know that you're… apprehensive about some things," he acknowledged, starting on the straps that held the cuisses on his left leg, letting her deal with the ones on his right, "But… if I were to… um…come see you later tonight, would you throw me out?"

"I think we've established I've become a bit of a pushover where you're concerned," She threw one leg piece over each shoulder, "Don't abuse that knowledge."

"You really have. And I won't. I just don't like the idea of sleeping alone. I mean, at all. But especially after that."

"I know. That's an old wound. Go have it stitched up. I'm not going anywhere," she said gently, then paused, "I am hiding the liquor, though."

"That is… that's probably a good idea. But you're carrying about half your body weight in red steel right there. Can you make it up the stairs?"

"Well that's a bit insulting," she said, her indignation a joke, letting the hand that was carrying the great breastplate rest against her leg for a moment, "It's good for me. Go on. Get your answers."

He nodded, and took off, ostensibly towards the wing of the house where the master could be found. Ten scurried upstairs, as much as someone with her burden could scurry, not entirely confident that the nice little chat would not result in a man being thrown through a window yet again. Though, all in all, Alistair seemed more gobsmacked than angry. I suppose it's one thing to strongly suspect something and another to be told straight out. Maybe I should pay a visit to Goldanna MacCathail, figure out who told who what and why. Then again, what's the point? She's probably the person most hurt by all of this. Fucking nobles and their stupid schemes, the rest of us just swept out of the way like ants.

She left Alistair's armor in his room and confiscated two bottles - one half full and one unopened. She put one of them in the chest at the foot of her bed, locking it and taking the key, but kept one, the half-full one of Orzammar rye. I didn't say where I was going to hide the liquor, did I. Finding nobody on that floor to keep her company, she went down to the stables to at least have the comfort of her dog.

Pigeon, always happy to see her, doubly so since she'd been gone so long, greeted her with a wet tongue in the face enormous paws on her shoulders. She bestowed the requisite ear scritches, face pats, and 'whosagoodgirl's then went to sit on the stack of haybales. When she turned the corner, though, she found she was not alone. for the butler was already there, lounging, a jug in his hand.

"And where have you been?" he asked. The affected upper class accent was gone along with any semblance of diction.

"Super secret Grey Warden business," she said. She sat beside him, but one bale up so she was looking down at the shiny crown of his head. Pigeon joined her, flopping down with her head in her mistress's lap. Ten uncorked the pilfered bottle and took a swig. The raw distillation greeted her like an old friend whose affections always included a punch or two in the arm.

"Sure," Gwylan grunted suspiciously. They sat there in silence for a moment, each drinking from their respective bottles.

"Who were you seeing at the Alienage?" she asked finally, after the silence had become awkward.

"I have family," he said, almost indignantly. He was clearly several sheets to the wind at this point, but did not make any moves to leave and stop consorting with someone whom he clearly believed to be below him.

"Of course you do, but you were very rarely home."

"It's not my home anymore. You probably understand that too."

"I suppose I do," she sighed, "What are you drinking about?"

"What am I not drinking about," he countered.

"Well from where I'm sitting you've lived a fairly charmed life. You work maybe four months out of the year, you have your own apartment in this very nice house, and you're contractually required to be off the clock at eight. I don't know what the salary is, but given you don't have to pay rent, it sounds like a good deal to me."

"Do you know what it is to be haunted, Teneira?" he slurred, leaning the back of his head against the bale Ten was sitting on and looking up at her.

"Yes," she said, "What could possibly haunt you? Ghosts of dust bunnies past?"

"Glib little thing, aren't you. I've heard you have managed to con your way into a council position."

"Well nobody's sent me the paperwork, but if they do, I assure you I earned fair and square. If indeed that is where the queen intends to put me, instead of an unmarked grave out on the Bannorn," Ten said. She turned one of Pigeon's ears inside out and let it flop back into its normal position.

"Well you're certainly doing her bidding. Word on the street is her father's been looking down from a pike on the highest bridge since sunset."

"She's the queen. We all do her bidding."

"Queen regent," Gwylan corrected her, and both of them chuckled, "So, putting aside the nonsense these people get up to, we're getting a new niece or nephew." He held up his bottle, and she clinked hers against it. The liquor was making him incredibly talkative and seemed to have loosened, if not entirely removed, the perpetual stick up his ass. He almost sounded pleasant, like he regarded Ten not as a random obnoxious child, but what she was, both grown and a distant but real relation by marriage.

"We are," Ten agreed, deciding to go with it, "How do you feel about that?"

"If Soris doesn't wind up strung up by his neck? I think an older woman's a good choice for him." And indulging in family gossip. He must be shitcanned.

"She's not that old, is she? Did you talk to her?"

"Briefly," he said, "She's got about six years on him, enough to matter but not enough to make it weird, as you young folk are so fond of putting it. But she has children already, so she must have become more sensible."

Ten recalled what her father had said about having children teaching you fear. She would miss the old Soris, if that indeed happened, but all in all he could do with getting into fewer scrapes. Especially if she wasn't around to help him out of them.

"And it doesn't bother you she's shem?" she asked, the next obvious question. She really didn't know Gwylan's position on the matter. He seemed chiefly concerned with the reputation of the household where he world, and as this did not involve any of the owners thereof, it was probably equally likely he didn't care. He'd spent so long trying to be one of them, after all. His nephew marrying one probably was the best he was going to do.

"Well it's not ideal, obviously, but I never really felt like the whole arranged marriage bit was ever a good idea, and if that's out, then your options are limited," He took a long swallow. From the smell of it it was rum, but she didn't recognize the writing on the bottle.

"Really," she said, taking a swig herself, "What's your issue with it?"

"Oh I don't know, the idea of being expected to devote yourself to a total stranger, right from jump never sat right with me. Like, at least put the pair next door to each other for a few months before they're expected to share a bed." But that's how both your family and the people you admire most do it… is he really saying the middle class way is best? I suppose people will always surprise you.

"Is that why you never married?" she asked. She had always sensed Gwylan had some great secret that had led him to where he was in life, now in his fifties.

"Oh I did," he said, "Why do you think I feel that way?"

"Really!" Ten exclaimed, "And here I was thinking you a lifelong bachelor, rakish and free. What happened?" She chuckled inwardly at the imagination of a younger man, with all his hair, waving at the ladies across the square with his feather duster.

"I was younger than I ought to have been. Sixteen, I think. Nice girl from Crestwood, same age. Back then I worked for the Chantry, kept the nuns' cells clean. She wasn't a bad woman, of course she wasn't. I just never… it never felt right. I always felt like there was a stranger there. Someone I didn't want watching me. Even after she and I had known each other for years. I could never just be so long as she was there."

Ten thought briefly of the week she had just spent, not too long, or she feared Gwylan would see it on her face. There had been plenty of 'just being.' She had been so used to Alistair being a constant fixture in her life that by the time the whole thing had started he'd already seen her lose her temper over nothing, trip over her own feet, and blow her nose a little too loudly on multiple occasions, so there really wasn't much to hide. Then she thought of Nelaros, if it would have worked out like it did in her dream in the Fade, being as comfortable in each others presence as one was alone, or if he would have forever remained a stranger, just out of her reach.

"You know you could have asked for a boy," she pointed out before she could get too caught up in contemplating what might have been, "They do those too. Even back in your day."

"That's not it," he said, rolling his eyes, "Why does everyone think if you don't like women you must like men?"

"Well that is usually the way of it," Ten observed.

"I just don't think I have that part of me," Gwylan said, "Physically everything's there, not that you want to know about that. But… I never had whatever it was that makes you interested in other people like that."

Andraste's shapely ass, he really does want to talk. This is getting incredibly personal. Then again he probably knows I'll be out of what's left of his hair soon, not around to spill his business. Not that I would. Not without reason, anyway. And from the sound of it he needs to talk to somebody. She kept her mouth shut and let him talk.

"We made it work for a few years. But then… Deiala wanted babies," the butler continued, "I liked the idea of having a child, just not the idea of making one. So we made a bargain. I had started working in the kitchens here, the butler at the time - shem of course - offered lodging, so I moved myself here, she stayed there where she could do as she pleased. I agreed to claim any babies she had, come around on my days off and birthdays and holidays and maybe take them fishing or something and… she and I would just be separate."

"What happened?" She probably took more of a liking to whoever she intended to conceive with than she planned for. Ran off. Left him. Couldn't blame her. Couldn't blame him for being hurt over it.

"She got killed," he said.

Well shit.

"Guess the man she'd shacked up with in my absence didn't want his wife finding out, so when she got a belly, he strangled her and threw her in the harbor." Gwylan said this without hint of emotion, like he was reporting on the state of the winter sores. Then again that was how everyone from home described someone meeting a terrible end. It was a fact of life, better not ascribe too much to it.

"Maker's breath, Gwylan, I had no idea," Ten said, "I've never heard this story."

"Who would have told you? This was more than thirty years ago. I remember it was less than a year after Lydeia's wedding, meaning while your dad was here, he was still a kid. And Cedrin never went in for gossip. Good man that."

"Well I'm sorry. That's awful."

"It is, right? Poor lass," Gwylan's voice was regretful, but had not lost its clinical edge, "Can't help but think it was somewhat my fault. If whatever's broken in me hadn't been I would have stayed in the Alienage and she'd never have met him."

"Well that's hardly your fault, is it," Ten said, "You can't blame yourself for all the shit people of the world continuing to be shit."

"Perhaps. Perhaps not. Either way, the man was caught and executed, of course, it's amazing how swift the law is when the perpetrator's an elf, but after that I was just the poor cuckold with the dead whore of a wife. So here I stay. They can pity me from afar."

"Well nobody's talking about it anymore," she said.

"I haven't told anyone about that in years. That's the great thing about being a butler. People don't really see you as a person. You're just sort of a combination appliance and draft animal. Even to the other staff."

"They give you a wide berth because they think you think you're better than them."

"I am better than them. Half of them can't even read. And don't give me a speech about how poverty makes it hard, I had the same opportunities they did. You too, and look at what you've made of yourself."

"I'm… not going to get into everything that's wrong with that. I'm more curious… why are you telling me about this?"

He held up his jug and swirled it so the nefarious liquid within sloshed, "You're the only elf in this place I can't fire, so you're also the only one who doesn't immediately leave a room when they see me in it. Anyway, don't you carry the same burden? Inadvertently causing the death of a spouse you didn't actually care about?"

"Well that's not fair. I didn't not care about him. I didn't know him. And I also didn't hole myself up in some dark empty house for thirty years. I've always made it my business to get rid of men who are violent to those they have power over, that just threw another log on that fire."

"By being violent yourself."

"It's the only language they speak. When they're ready to just listen, I will just talk. Until then…" she took a swig, "Choppy choppy."

"Not everyone's cut out for bloodshed. You can think of me whatever you like. I'm closer to the end of my life than the beginning at this point so I have no appetite for change."

"Same, actually," Ten said, reminded of that fact again. She didn't particularly care for it, so she changed the subject, "What do you do with yourself when the arl isn't in town, anyway? Fart on his furniture? Try on his clothes?"

"I read," the butler said condescendingly, "I write some too, in fact."

"Really. Manuals on the most effective way to get dubious stains out of trousers, I imagine."

"That's valets' work. And no, if you must know, I write fiction."

"What sort? Wait, no. Let me guess. Horror. Something about a silver tea set enchanted by a blood mage so that it gets tarnished immediately after you stop polishing it." She shuddered.

Gwylan sighed. Ten was not quite sure why he was putting up with her ribbing. She probably would have walked out by now.

"If you must know, I put out a three-book series a few years ago. The Dark Comtesse."

"Wait a second… is one of the titled 'Carrignac's Oath'?"

"Yes," he said, "The second one. I see you've heard of it."

"I read that one, I didn't realize there were two more. I thought it was written by a woman."

"Willoughby Fulke," he said, chuckling, "It's actually a unisex name."

"That's... not why I thought it was written by a woman. Gwylan… that book was…" she paused to think of a good word choice, "Explicit."

"Ironic, right?" Gwylan chuckled, "I've basically no experience in that department or much interest in the real thing, but writing? The smut just flows from my pen."

"And how many people know about this?"

"Plenty. I'm always truthful about it when asked about my hobbies. Usually nobody asks. And when they do, and I tell them, they think I'm joking. It does make my day every time, people having a laugh at idea of the uptight butler always decrying scandalous behavior claiming to write dirty novels in his spare time, all the while knowing it's true."

"Where do you even come up with that?"

"You've spent the last several months watching the nobility like a hawk. Where do you think?"

"What, do you sneak into their bedrooms?"

"Don't be crass."

"I'm not the one who used the words 'turgid member' fifteen times in one page."

"You read it though."

"It was like watching a tornado tearing up a small village. Horrifying, but I couldn't look away," Ten observed, "So how'd you discover this… uh… talent of yours?"

"I started reading some of Devera Swayne's work after I heard the chambermaids giggling over it. Sort of wanted to see what the fuss was about."

"So you read it, decided 'I could write this trash' and it just happened?"

"No. The titillating bits get them to pick it up, but, I don't remember which book it was, but I almost felt like I was the one falling in love. Never had that in my real life, never really wanted it, but I liked reading about it. And I realized that this world is just full of frustrated people. The good brothers and sisters of the Chantry, bound by vows of chastity and solitude they were too young to make and too scared to break. Minor nobles who would never dare risk their reputation sneaking off into a hayloft with the stableboy they fancy. Middle class, middle aged women married to disappointing men like me. For a few hours, they get to have the love of a lifetime, all without causing a scandal or calling forth the wrath of the Maker. I liked the idea of making people feel like that."

"Aww, Gwylan, that's actually kind of sweet."

"Now you tell me something, Miss Tabris. Now that I've run my mouth in front of you."

"Very well, but I am declaring my personal life off limits. Everyone knows too much about that already."

"Is it true you beat the tar out of Lady Isolde in the courtyard of Redcliffe Castle?"

"No. I just… smacked her around a bit," Ten said, "Didn't realize that it made it back here."

Gwylan smiled crookedly and raised his bottle, "Good for you." Ten obligingly toasted him, took a swig.

"So you tell me something else," said Ten, "Something I actually want to know that has nothing to do with you?"

"Heh. Why the fuck not?" Gwylan slurred, slumping over to one side.

"Does Arl Eamon keep an office here?"

"Of course he does. South wing, sunroom on the third floor. He likes looking down at the river. Suppose dead horses floating by aids a man in his work."

"Is it… off limits to you?"

Gwylan looked up at her slyly. "No, nothing in this house is off limits to me. I manage the expenditures when he's gone. Why? What do you have in mind?"

It was about one in the morning and Ten was sitting upright in bed rereading Carrignac's Oath, searching in the words for some of the cadence of her erstwhile drinking buddy. She was not surprised when footsteps approached. She imagined Alistair thought he was being stealthy, but he was not, though he did do her the courtesy of not closing the door too loudly when he entered.

"Eamon denied everything," Alistair said, "Said Loghain was trying to get me to duel him." He sounded annoyed, but not upset. Apparently the fact that were no longer in Ioan's vacant apartment where nobody could see or hear them had not registered to the man, and he sat himself down and started taking off his boots like he owned the place.

"You people just really can't help just taking all the territory you can get, can you," she commented dryly.

"Oh come on," he replied, swinging his legs over to sit next to her, "I'm leaving you with that whole side of the bed, shouldn't you be happy with that? You're small."

"Well if history's to be believed I'm going to wake up in a couple of hours on the floor and you'll try to convince me I was all right with that too. Then tomorrow night I'll be in the hallway."

"By the end of the week you'll just roam the corridors."

"Well, I see I didn't hide all the liquor," Ten said, registering his breath, "But in all seriousness, are you all right?"

"Yeah, well… after the small bottle you didn't find, I figured… I don't need to know. My options at this point are my mother was a traumatized scullery maid who jumped off a cliff, or she's been alive this whole time and never bothered to make sure I was all right, which I certainly wasn't. So… it doesn't matter."

"You're sure?" Ten asked, "You just want to go with that?"

"Well I'm never going to actually find out, am I. At any given point there were four people who knew the truth, either two or three of them are dead and the fourth isn't talking."

"Well it's your decision," Ten said, "You know I have ways of finding things out, but I promise I will leave this one alone if you tell me to."

"I don't know. I'd rather not think about it. At least for the moment. What is that you're reading? Looks like one of Morrigan's trashy books."

"You caught me," she sighed, and put it face down on the nightstand so the voluptuous drawing of the Comtesse herself was looking right at her.

"Is it any good?" he asked skeptically.

"Not really. It's more like… you remember that time in that weird valley between the Hinterlands and the Bannorn where we came across that bear that had just taken down a mountain goat and start eating it while it was still screaming?"

"How could I forgot?'

"And you kept saying, 'Maker's breath that's the most disgusting thing I've ever seen' but you kept watching, and kept saying that, over and over, until Zev offered to put your eyes out?"

"Yes."

"It's like that."

"And girls read that… for fun?"

"I suppose so. Either way, it's late, the chambermaid comes by at dawn and you'd better be out of here before then."

"Right, right. No scandals."

She blew out the candle and lay down, kicking the lid of the chest at the foot of the bed closed. Partially because it was strange leaving things open, but mostly to hide the stack of documents she'd stolen from the arl's office earlier in the evening, and all the secrets therein.