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Chapter Text

Viago de Riva disliked large social gatherings, as a rule. He’d gotten accustomed to them over the years, not least because they were a part of his job, but they still chafed at him. He had just gotten better at hiding his annoyance.

But his current contract was at a ball. A masquerade ball. The masquerade ball of the year. In Orlais .

It was, basically, his worst nightmare.

But there was nothing he could do about it. When Varric Tethras and Lace Harding had helped him and Teia after the Marnas Pell contract had gone sideways, both he and his lover had vowed to assist the two dwarves in any way they could - partly out of gratitude, but also because Varric and Harding had made it very clear that someone they called the Dread Wolf was plotting something terrible, and that it would be in all their best interests to do what they could to prevent whatever it was from happening.

So here he was, in the dining room of Halamshiral’s finest inn, acting on a letter from Harding asking him to retrieve a map from a Venatori mage named Tractus Danarius. According to Harding, Tractus was looking for a sponsor to help fund an expedition to the ruins indicated on the map, in order to retrieve something he could use to get back into the Venatori’s good graces after some fiasco at Castellum Tenebris. She had not explained what was in the ruins that would be of such interest to the Venatori, but then again she did not need to. Venatori interest was more than enough of a reason to take the map from Tractus.

Maybe it would be best to kill the little weasel, Viago mused as he sipped his after-lunch coffee (too light, too acidic; these Orlesians knew nothing about how to make a decent dark roast). One less living Venatori was a net good for the world. Besides, it would make taking the map much easier.

Ah, but which one would be best to use? Up and Adder was too fast acting; Mad About You was too slow and too showy. Be Still My Beating Heart? That could work: Tractus struck him as a nervy, anxious fellow. Such people were prone to working themselves up into paroxysms of near-lethal agitation; it would surprise no one if such a fit killed him. The dosage, though, that was the tricky part. He distilled Be Still My Beating Heart from foxglove and oleander he had grown himself, but even with all the care he took the poison could still vary from one batch to the next.

Movement caught Viago’s eye as someone moved towards his table. It was a tall, brown-skinned man, with the handsome features and easy grace of a well-polished, and well-practiced, seducer. He was dressed in a rather ostentatious white-and-lilac outfit of the kind that was popular among the young bucks of Antiva City, with the mask to match. The whole outfit was calculated not only to show his origins, but also his affluence. So: a rich Antivan then, probably some merchant prince’s brat, come to party with the nobility of Orlais.

Why, then, was he approaching Viago?

In no time at all, the man was standing beside Viago’s table, who caught the scent of his cologne: an expensive Orlesian blend that was all the rage among the younger nobility of Antiva. Viago had to stop himself from wrinkling his nose at the smell of it.

“You are the esteemed Señor Eduardo Quixada of Seleny, yes?”

Upon hearing the stranger’s voice, Viago’s spine stiffened in a combination of recognition and surprise. He knew that voice.

He looked up into the man’s eyes where they were visible through his mask’s eyeholes. “ Sí. And you?”

The brief pause in the man’s otherwise easy motions was unnoticeable to most people, but to a Crow, it was as clear as a shout from across the room. Viago knew that he had been recognized as well.

To cover up for his momentary surprise, the man smiled, and offered a friendly bow. “I am Don Leoluca Robustelli of Antiva City. It is an immense pleasure to see one of my countrymen here in Orlais. May I join you?”

“If you wish.”

“ Grazie.” The man pulled out the chair and sat down, flagging down a waiter and asking for another pot of coffee: “The darkest blend you have.”

“I have already ordered that,” Viago said as the waiter departed to fulfill the order, “and it tastes like pisswater.”

“Does it? I had hoped it would be otherwise. I have had nothing but tea since getting here.” After a quick glance around, the man leaned forward towards Viago, and asked, his voice low: “What are you doing here, Viago de Riva?”

Viago raised an eyebrow. “I should ask the same of you, Illario Dellamorte.”

Lucanis Dellamorte had never been to the Winter Palace in Halamshiral. He knew it by reputation, of course, but he’d never had cause to visit it: too far south for his usual quarry, and dangerous territory to boot. A decade might have passed since the bloody Winter Ball where Celene Valmont had been raised to Empress with the Inquisition’s assistance, but no one had forgotten who had been behind Florianne de Chalons’ bid for the throne. And whether or not one sided with Celene or with Gaspard, everyone despised Florianne, and by extension, her backers: the Venatori.

But ten years was still ten years, and people forgot things - not everything, but some things. So while anyone who was openly allied to the Venatori would not be caught breathing at the Winter Palace in the midst of a masquerade celebrating Empress Celene’s ascension, it was possible for those whose allegiance was less obvious to slip in through the cracks, like rats.

That was why Lucanis was here, in one of the suites at Halamshiral’s finest inn, studying a map of the Winter Palace. A rat was going to be present at the masquerade that night: one Tractus Danarius, bastard son of Magister Danarius. Magister Danarius had been one of the most powerful and influential members of the Venatori, and had a reputation for cruelty towards his slaves and arrogance towards his fellow magisters. Unfortunately, Lucanis had not had the pleasure of killing him: that honor had gone to Danarius’ former perrepatae. When he’d heard the news, Lucanis had drunk a glass to that person’s honor for taking down one of the Venatori’s most powerful and dangerous members.

And now someone out there wanted Tractus dead as well. Lucanis had no idea who the client was; the contract on Tractus’ life has been given to his grandmother by middlemen, and they had paid the asking price up-front, no negotiations. They also said that Tractus would be attending Celene’s Winter Ball, but had not explained why.

Lucanis had a theory, though. It was obvious Tractus was trying to get back into the Venatori’s good graces, but how he was planning to do so was still in question. Some kind of deal, perhaps? But what kind? What could Tractus possibly offer to the Venatori? Though he had been acknowledged by the Magisterium as Danarius’ son, and therefore his heir, Tractus did not command the same respect nor the same resources as his father once did. What could he give the Venatori, then, that would welcome him back into their ranks?

Lucanis froze as he heard footsteps outside, coming towards the room. One set was Illario’s, but the other… Hard to tell. Not one of the inn’s workers, of that he was certain.

His hand fell to his dagger, gripping the handle in anticipation as he moved around the table so that the piece of furniture was between him and the door, and whoever was coming in with Illario. He had no idea what his cousin was doing, bringing a stranger to their room. He hoped it was some stroke of dumb luck and Illario was leading their target straight onto Lucanis’ blade, because if it were otherwise he swore to the Maker he’d—

The door opened then, and Illario walked in first, talking loudly about making a deal on some high-quality antiques that he intended to sell. The person behind him was not Tractus, but a tall, lithely built man, dark-haired and brown-skinned, dressed in a rather subfusc outfit of dark blue silk and wearing a plain mask of the same color on his face.

A frisson of recognition passed through Lucanis: a frisson that turned into surprise when the stranger removed his mask, revealing a narrow, fine-boned face with scowling brows over light blue eyes.

“Viago?” Lucanis asked, unable to keep the surprise from his voice as he relaxed his grip on his dagger. “What are you doing here?”

Viago de Riva nodded curtly. “I should ask the same of you, Lucanis. Though I have a suspicion I know why you are here.”

“We should work with him, cousin,” Illario chimed as he moved to stand next to Lucanis by the table with the map laid out on it. “I think we have the same target.”

Lucanis raised one eyebrow, and turned to Viago. “Is this true?”

“If you are hunting Tractus Danarius, then yes.”

“Ah.” Well, it was not quite Illario leading Tractus onto Lucanis’ knife, but this was almost as good. “I have a contract on Tractus’ life, but what is your interest in him?”

“He has a map in his possession that a friend would like retrieved.”

“A map?”

Viago nodded. “Tractus is trying to get back into the Venatori’s good graces, after some kind of failure in Castellum Tenebris. The map indicates a site where something of value to the Venatori might be found, and Tractus is trying to find sponsors to help fund an expedition to retrieve it. My contact would like the map taken off of Tractus’s hands.”

Lucanis nodded slowly, his mind quickly connecting various dots of speculation and theory. “Your contact is very well-informed.”

Viago waved his hand. “What matters is that our contracts are aligned. Your contract stipulates that you kill him; mine is to take something that belongs to him. I see no reason why we cannot work together to achieve our individual goals.”

“We could, at that.” Lucanis tilted his head. “What was your plan to approach him?”

“I have set myself up with a cover as a Seleny antiques trader. I have already laid the groundwork to establish that cover here, and intend to approach Tractus tonight at the ball, with an offer to fund his expedition. This should get me close enough to him to see the map.”

“Well, that is certainly better than me trying to flirt and seduce my way into his chambers,” Illario remarked. “If you would like, you and I could work together on this, Viago. Surely two sponsors is more tempting than one.”

“Hm. It may be. The whole inn already knows that we have met and spoke about you selling me antiques; it would not be so unusual if we were to discuss similar things were we to run into each other at the ball tonight.”

“Easily done.” Illario glanced at the door. “Perhaps you can send your Fledgling to—”

“She is no longer my Fledgling.”

Lucanis blinked at the bite of irritation that surfaced in Viago’s voice. “Viago?”

“She was made a full Crow a month ago,” Viago replied, and it was not difficult to read the tension in his shoulders and brow. “She is currently on her first contract.”

Illario grinned. “Ah, that explains the party House de Riva threw at the Diamond last month! We had to fish so many people out of the canals! Was one of them your Fledgling? Former Fledgling, I should say.”

“No.” Viago sighed. “I had to pull her off the roof of Treviso’s tallest belltower. How she got up there, I will never know, but it is certainly a testament to her climbing skills that she got up there at all, despite being drunk and dosed with mad honey.”

“Wait,” Lucanis interrupted. “You dosed your Fledgling with mad honey ?”

Viago shot him a dry look. “She is a de Riva, Lucanis. Of course I dosed her with mad honey. I have been doing it since she was twelve.”

Lucanis shook his head, while Illario hooted in hilarity. “Of course.” He paused, and offered Viago a comforting look. “She will be all right, Viago. Wherever she is, I am sure you trained her well enough that she can handle her first contract without you there to assist her.”

Viago’s shoulders only got tighter at his words. “I tell myself that, but it would be much easier if her first contract had been somewhere further away from here.”

A pause, and both of Lucanis’s eyebrows went up as he realized what Viago was saying.

“You mean to say she is here ?” Illario demanded, voicing the question in Lucanis’ mind. “Viago, I know you are attached to this Fledgling of yours, but you do realize that it is important to cut the apron strings, yes?”

“It was a coincidence,” Viago snapped, crossing his arms in front of his chest in annoyance. “Her contract is to protect Ambassador Josephine Montilyet from the House of Repose by either identifying or killing the Repose’s agent or agents sent to kill Lady Montilyet.”

Lucanis frowned at the mention of the House of Repose: Orlais’ own guild of assassins. While they did not have the same power and reach as the Antivan Crows, and they worked solely for the Orlesian nobility, the Crows had crossed paths with them enough times in the past to have a sort of unspoken non-aggression pact - provided, of course, they were not going after the same target.

He shook his head then. As Viago had said, this was his former Fledgling’s contract; it had nothing to do with his, or even Viago’s, job. These were all details that were extraneous to what they needed to get done.

“Viago.” When the other man looked at him, Lucanis said: “You are Fifth Talon. I am sure we can trust you to be focused on your contract, yes? We shall need that, if we are to work together on this.”

Viago’s eyes flashed, and his arms dropped to his sides as he nodded. “I am a Crow, Lucanis, the same as you and Illario. Of course I can.”

“Good.” He gestured to the map on the table. “Then we shall need a plan. Illario and I have already come up with the bones of one, but now that you are working with us, we could refine it further. Especially since you have already laid the groundwork for an approach.”

Viago slowly approached the table, his eyes roving over the map of the Winter Palace’s grounds. “I assume you plan to stay out of sight, while Illario lured Tractus someplace quiet so you could close in for the kill?”

“Ideally, yes, though I also have a costume and mask stashed away in the palace, in case it is needed.”

“I see.” Viago surveyed the map in silence for a moment, and then said: “Here is what I suggest we do…”

Chapter Text

Renata de Riva was familiar with masquerades. They were very popular in Antiva, especially in summer, when necklines, inhibitions, and scruples all became a little looser due to the heat. This was further aided by the anonymity of masks: a blessing for anyone who needed or wanted plausible deniability - Crows included.

For the denizens of the aptly-named Masked Empire, however, a masquerade was very serious business - doubly so when it was held in the Winter Palace at Halamshiral, under the auspices of the Empress herself, to celebrate her ascension to the throne. And since the theme of this masquerade was “Aviary,” everyone had come in their best and most ostentatious outfits.

Renata’s own costume was not ostentatious, but there was no denying that it was elegant. Made to evoke a rondine , her gown was made of white silk, corseted at her torso and flowing outwards into a graceful fall from her waist down her hips and legs. Over this was a long jacket made of iridescent dark blue silk with wide sleeves that mimicked the bird’s wings, while the back had been cut into a deep V that started at the small of her back and opened out all the way down to a little ways past the white gown’s hem, to mimic the bird’s forked tail. Around her neck she wore a ruby choker, as a nod to the rondine ’s ruby-red throat. The whole ensemble was matched by a mask that replicated the bird’s shimmering red and blue face colors, the shades carefully chosen so that they all matched the ones on her clothes and jewelry.

Count on Viago, she thought with amusement, to make sure that the whole thing was as fine and as beautiful as he expected everything to be, even if it was not for himself.

“I do not remember seeing this many feathers outside of the Rialto bird market. And not all of it in good taste, it must be said.”

Renata smiled as she turned to her companion. “While I second your opinion that some of the guests are committing crimes against fashion, if I understand what you have told me, a little notoriety can actually be a good thing when playing the Game.”

Ambassador Josephine Montilyet turned to Renata with a smile. Like everyone else attending the ball, she was wearing a masquerade costume meant to represent a kind of bird. In her case, her costume represented a zaida , a crane that was common in the marshes around Antiva City. Instead of a gown, though, she was wearing a sleekly-cut suit: a black shirt embroidered with a subtle feather pattern, matched by a pair of trousers and a jacket in a cool bluish gray that was reminiscent of the feathers of the crane she sought to mimic. The mask that rested over her face was black, with white stripes angling away from the corners of her eyes. Like Renata’s, it was not an ostentatious outfit, but it was distinctly elegant: a characteristic that was easy to attribute to the former Inquisition diplomat.

“Perhaps,” Josephine agreed, “if one is highborn enough that one’s wealth and status can cushion oneself from the sharper edges of infamy. And even then, it is a fine line to walk when playing the Game.”

Their conversation was cut short as they slowly rounded a corner on their walk around the edge of the Winter Palace’s immense ballroom, and a pair of nobles approached Josephine for a chat. The walk was their way of showing the entire party that they had arrived, or so Josephine claimed, because it was one thing for the herald to announce they were there, and another thing entirely to be seen circulating and chatting with all the right people.

Renata had not gainsaid her on this; she was not, after all, any great expert in Orlesians and their Game, and if Josephine said this was the done thing, then they were going to do it - even if it made her nervous to have all these eyes on them, especially since she did not yet know if there were any House of Repose assassins in the crowd. All she could really do was try her best to stay by Josephine’s side as much as possible, and when she could not, keep a close watch on her and make sure that no one tried to kill her.

Sadly, this was a task made immensely more difficult by the fact that Josephine seemed to know, or rather she was known, by almost everyone in attendance, and they all wanted her attention. It meant that there was always someone approaching her to say hello, or to chat with her, or to pull her away for a card game, or private drinking party, or one of the other, more salacious gatherings that appeared to be going on in parallel to the ball itself, in any number of smaller rooms or in other buildings entirely.

Not for the first time, Renata thought that this contract should have gone to a more senior Crow: someone with more experience and more focus than she had. Everyone around her agreed, including Viago. Her mentor might have been confident in her abilities, but even he knew that this was a bit much for a new Crow’s first contract. But for some Maker-only-knew reason, Varric had recommended her to Divine Victoria for the job, and when the contract came in and it asked for her by name, well… She could not refuse.

So in lieu of experience, she had done her best to prepare. She had visited Josephine at the Montilyet Estate in Antiva City a whole week before the ambassador was scheduled to leave for Orlais, and used that as an opportunity both to establish her cover as an old friend of Josephine’s, and to gain more information about the Montilyets’ involvement with the House of Repose. The story Josephine told her - two lovers eloping together, thus leading to enmity between their families - was a familiar one from many ballads, operas, plays, and ballettos both tragic and comedic. Josephine herself saw the irony in her situation and was mildly amused by it, though also irritated as well; the grudge was ancient, to be sure - “It all happened a hundred years ago!” she had exclaimed - but it should not have broken into new mutiny precisely because it was ancient.

Josephine also told her that she had done all she could to solve the problem. When she had been working with the Inquisition she had executed a series of delicate political and social maneuvers that had restored an Orlesian family, the Du Paraquettes, to the ranks of the nobility; in return, they were meant to rescind the contract their ancestors had taken with the House of Repose. Despite supposedly having done so, however, Repose assassins still continued to come after Josephine every time she crossed the border into Orlais. It had not been so bad when she had been under the aegis of the Inquisition’s protection and had both the Left and Right Hands of the Divine looking out for her, but with the Inquisition dissolved, she had no such protections.

“I understand why Leliana sent you to accompany me,” Josephine had told Renata when they’d set out on the trip to Orlais, “and I deeply appreciate her kindness in ensuring my safety. But I do think it is a bit of overkill to send a Crow to watch over me - not least because your contracts are rarely ever cheap. Where she is getting the budget for this, I do not know.”

“Good evening to you, Marquise.”

Renata pulled herself out of her thoughts of the past and focused once more on the present. Josephine was talking to an elf, dressed as an Orlesian tourterelle: a pearlescent gray gown with a high collar and sleeves marked with the distinctive black and golden-brown striped markings of the bird she was representing. The quality of her mask and her costume indicated that she was no mere servant, but someone with enough wealth and power to be present at the Winter Ball on her own merits.

While elves in positions of power were still a rare sight in Orlais, things were rapidly changing - and this particular elf was responsible for most of it.

“Good evening, Ambassador Montilyet,” greeted Lady Briala, Marquise of the Dales. She turned her gaze towards Renata, who instantly knew that Lady Briala recognized her despite her costume and mask.

Despite the recognition, Lady Briala inclined her head politely towards Renata, as if she did not remember her from the Jader contract five years ago. “I greet you, Lady Adelina. My condolences for the loss of your husband. I hope the Winter Ball helps to alleviate some of your dispiritment.”

Renata bowed her head and curtsied. “You are most kind, Marquise. Thank you.” She rose, and smiled. “Yes, the ball has been magnificent. Josephine has been kind enough to introduce me to some of her dear friends, and it has been very interesting and entertaining thus far.”

“That is good to hear. There has been much death and danger in the north thanks to the Qunari; it is pleasing to know that you have found some solace here in the south.” Lady Briala’s gaze slid towards another part of the ballroom, before turning back to Renata and Josephine. “I am afraid Her Majesty is summoning me, so I must leave you two here. Please do not forget to see Lady Seryl; she has been asking after you, Ambassador Montilyet.”

“Of course, Marquise. I shall join Lady Seryl as soon as we have finished our turn around the ballroom.”

As soon as Lady Briala had disappeared into the crowd, Josephine turned to Renata with an intrigued look. “How does the Marquise of the Dales know you? Apart from the cover, I mean, because she seemed to recognize you.”

Renata shrugged slightly as, once more, they began walking. “Likely because I met her in Jader five years ago. I was only a Fledgling then, accompanying my tutore , who was the one assigned to handle a contract there. I do not know what I could have done to warrant the Marquise remembering me.”

“Five years ago in Jader… That would have been the peace summit between Ferelden and Orlais.”

“Yes, it was.”

“You and your tutore must have done your job very well indeed for her to remember you.”

Renata nodded in agreement, because she supposed that she and Viago had done quite well during the Jader contract. While there had not been any assassins out for Empress Celene’s blood, there had been a conspiracy of Orlesian nobles colluding with Fereldan banns intent on stoking renewed hostilities between the two nations. She and Viago had managed to identify the members of the conspiracy, and passed that information on to Lady Seryl and Lady Briala, whom, she assumed, had taken appropriate action.

Now that she thought about it, she supposed it would be interesting to do some follow-up on what had happened. She had no right to speak directly about the matter to Lady Seryl, much less to Lady Briala, but maybe she could ask Viago the next time she saw him. He might know.

The moment her thoughts touched on her mentor, she spotted him as she and Josephine passed a balcony that was open to the chilly winter air. Dressed as a nitticora , a type of heron, his costume consisted of a light gray shirt and trousers, topped by a long jacket of bluish-black silk that extended down his back to just past his knees, and up over his head into a hood in an echo of the bird’s black crown. He also did not look the least bit comfortable, scanning the crowd with a scowl on his face that was not minimized by his gray mask. 

Their gazes met as she and Josephine walked by, and Renata managed to shoot him a small, encouraging smile. She saw how his eyes narrowed behind his mask, and the way his hand made a discreet, but sharp gesture made her mind conjure the words “Cut it out, get back to work!” in his own voice, as easily as if he had spoken them aloud.

Renata turned away from him, smoothing her expression into neutrality to prevent herself from giggling. While Viago was technically right, it was always fun to tease him from time to time - a habit she’d picked up from Teia, and which Viago complained about regularly, despite never telling her to outright stop.

She was jolted, quite literally, out of her thoughts when a tall figure dressed in the brilliant blues and oranges of an alción bumped against her shoulder. When she glanced at the offender, she caught a glimpse of blue-gray eyes that briefly seemed to pierce right through her, before they lowered as the figure bowed graciously.

“Begging your pardon, Signorina Rondine,” purred the alción in a smooth Antivan accent. “I did not mean to ruffle your feathers.”

Renata offered the man a brief curtsy. “Your concern is appreciated, Signore Alción, but I am quite well, thank you.”

“Ah, a fellow Antivan! Always a delight to see one of our nation’s fair blooms in the south’s colder climes.” The man took her hand, and lightly kissed her knuckles in a gallant gesture. “I hope you will grant me the honor of a dance with you? To make up for this offense.”

Renata blinked. The thought of dancing had not occurred to her at all, since she was on a contract, but now that she had been asked, she found that she did indeed want to do so. It was so rare that she danced with a partner; the Danse Macabre had techniques that involved fighting alongside others, but it was, by and large, a soloist’s style. It would be such a delight to just dance with someone, with no other concerns but the music and the movement, both of herself and her partner.

The man’s grip on her fingers loosened slightly, and uncertainty crept into his voice. “Signorina? If you are not so inclined, or are already spoken for, I will take no offense if you decline, greatly though I envy whoever it is that shall have you in their arms later.”

“Apologies,” Renata answered, forcing her thoughts away and giving the man a smile. “I cannot right now, but perhaps later?”

“Of course!” The man kissed her hand again, and then straightened, grinning. “The night is yet young. I shall seek you out later.”

Renata noticed the way his gaze shifted away to somewhere behind her, and how his smile grew colder, more calculating: the smile of a hunter spotting his prey. For a moment, she could almost believe he was a Crow.

“ Amico !” he called as he moved past her. “There you are! I was wondering when you would arrive! Come, there is someone I want to introduce you to.”

Renata allowed the tension of the moment to slip away. A small interruption, but nothing she could not handle. She turned once more to Josephine, hoping to share some quip with her about what had just happened—

And realized, to her horror, that Josephine was gone.

Chapter Text

Illario Dellamorte had never been to the Winter Ball, the crowning event of the Orlesian social calendar. He had learned all its rules and nuances, of course, having been taught them as part of his lessons growing up, but he had never had the opportunity to apply his knowledge until this night. Before coming here, he imagined it would be a thrilling evening, with a spectacle around every corner, a scandal under every rosebush, a duel in every courtyard, and deadly secrets whispered behind every fan and closed door.

But now that he was actually here, he found it all rather disappointing. Chevaliers still challenged each other to duels, and there were certainly secrets and scandals aplenty talked about in hushed whispers and confidential tones all around the ballroom, but the Orlesians themselves were nothing like what he had imagined. He had encountered individuals before - even killed one or two of them for contracts - and he had rather liked them , but it appeared that the Orlesian nobility as a whole were another story entirely. Where was the refinement he had imagined, the elegance ? Surely the Orlesians’ Grand Game was far more sophisticated than what he was seeing here?

Or…maybe that was the point? Maybe it was all a facade, to conceal the nobility’s true lethality? Maybe the way they simpered at him was a kind of snub: he was Antivan, and therefore an outsider, and thus did not deserve to see their true ability at the Game. It would make sense for Orlesians to do that sort of thing.

Illario groaned. He did not need to think about this at all; it was hardly important to the contract, after all. He had to focus; the sooner this was done, the sooner he could come back here and dance with the exquisite little rondine he had bumped into earlier. That would be a good reward for accomplishing this job.

“Is something the matter, Don Robustelli?”

Illario concealed a wince at Tractus Danarius’ mangling of his cover name and designation by laughing heartily and patting him on the shoulder, doing so with just enough force to make him stumble a little. “Apologies, amico, I was distracted. And who would not be, with so much beauty and spectacle, yes?”

Beside him, Tractus Danarius was dressed as… Well, Illario wasn’t entirely sure what bird it was. Tractus was wearing a rather shabby outfit in different shades of brown, and the mask he had on did not reference any specific type of bird. He could have been anything from a Fereldan dunnock to an exotic podargo from the Donarks, or something else entirely.

The problem, in Illario’s opinion, was that the outfit stood out, and in all the wrong ways. He could practically feel all the eyes that were tracking them as they made their way across the ballroom to the balcony where Viago was waiting, watching them and sneering. Illario knew what they were thinking: Tractus was insulting them by not dressing with greater care, and since Illario was accompanying him, they looked down on him, too.

He resolutely ignored them. This would probably be the first and the last time he would ever be in attendance, and he was entirely fine with it. He would not miss this place in the least.

At length, they managed to thread their way through the crowds of attendees, and exited onto the balcony where Viago said he would be waiting - to find the Fifth Talon glaring at him so hard it was as if the other man was trying to set him on fire with his mind.

Illario brushed it off, and put on a breezy smile. “Apologies for the wait, Signore Quixada. It was difficult finding my friend here - you know, the one I promised I would introduce.”

He stepped aside and pulled Tractus forward so that he was standing in front of Viago. “Allow me to present Magister Tractus Danarius. Magister Danarius, this is Eduardo Quixada, whom I ran into at the inn. He is the best antiquities dealer in Seleny; I purchase from him often, and sell just as often too.”

“We have met,” Tractus said, nodding curtly at Viago, who nodded back.

“Then this is good news!” Illario exclaimed, grandly gesturing and pitching his voice in such a way that it would irritate any of the partygoers still on the balcony - most of whom were heading indoors anyway, glaring at Tractus as they did so. “We can go straight to business.”

“Not so fast,” Viago said, cutting a sharp look at Illario before focusing on Tractus, in a way that made the Venatori flinch. Maker, but Illario had to learn how Viago did that; it was rather impressive.

“Leoluca and I have done business for a long time, but you and I have not ever done business with each other. He claims you are trustworthy, and it is only because of his word that I am even giving you the benefit of the doubt. Frankly speaking, your expedition sounds like a scam.”

Illario sensed it more than he saw it: the way Tractus bristled at Viago’s accusation, almost puffing up like an annoyed cat. “I assure you, Signore Quixada, my expedition is not a scam.”

Viago raised an eyebrow. “Do you realize, Magister, what it is you are asking for? An expedition into the Tirashan is no small thing. You will need supplies, transportation, protection from bandits, mercenaries, and those strange elves that are said to live in the forests. You will need guides to take you where you want to go, and Maker knows where you will find anyone who can take you through the Tirashan, of all places.”

“Surely someone in Serault—”

“May be unwilling to cooperate, unless you offer them enough money to make venturing into the Tirashan more appealing than just staying in town. And given that the people of Serault are some of the wiliest residents of Orlais, their assistance, if they choose to offer it, will not come cheap.

“What this means is that your expedition will require plenty of coin: coin I am not willing to invest in what essentially amounts to a dream whispered into the Fade.” Viago waved his hand dismissively. “Elven ruins in the Tirashan? it would be a safer bet to buy a map to a lost fortress in the Donarks from a Rivaini street hawker and mount an expedition there.”

Tractus’s wordless sputtering was Illario’s signal to apply a bit more pressure from his side, which he did with glee.

“Eduardo!” he cried, putting extra drama into his tone and pleased that he made Viago’s moustache twitch in irritation. “How can you say such a thing? You say you and I have done business for so long that you trust me, and yet here you are, asking such insulting questions!”

“I only said that you and I have done business for a long time,” Viago stated, “not necessarily that I trusted you.”

“Will you really impugn my honor in such a way, old friend?”

Viago rolled his eyes. “Very well, I trust you - moderately. But this companion of yours?” He shook his head. “No.”

“Surely there must be a way to rectify this.” Illario turned to Tractus, who now appeared to be sweating nervously despite the cold. “Come now, amico, show my friend Eduardo here that he can trust you. Might you be able to share some proof, at least? You have already said the Tirashan is the destination, but some more details would certainly convince Eduardo of the legitimacy of your expedition.”

It seemed like Tractus had stopped breathing, his eyes darting from Illario to Viago and back again, his mind clearly working at a furious pace. Had they pushed too hard? It was possible that Tractus was now seriously reconsidering requesting their assistance in financing his expedition; he might decide that it was not worth the trouble and just take his proposal to someone else. Worse came to worst, they would move to Plan B, but that was messier than their current plan and Illario did not want to wash blood out of his costume.

And then, Viago turned away, scoffing. “It would appear Magister Caldera was right about you, after all.”

Oho! That was a clever move, Illario thought. Magister Noelle Caldera was an influential member of the Venatori, and a powerful enchanter. Lucanis had begun looking into her after assassinating one of her lackeys in Nessum ten months ago, and it turned out that she was responsible for a handful of items made with red lyrium that had been found in the possession of some truly nasty individuals, both in and out of the Imperium. Lucanis planned to take her out, eventually, but in the meantime her name would serve as a useful lever in getting Tractus to show them the map.

“M-Magister Caldera?” Tractus stammered. “You know her?”

“I make it my business to know people who appreciate history and fine art,” Viago replied, “and Magister Caldera is one of them. She warned me of you, in fact; said that you might approach me with some hare-brained scheme. It is clear that she was correct.”

That, apparently, was all it took for Tractus to crack.

“I— I have a map,” the Venatori wheezed. “It shows the precise location of a series of elven ruins deep in the Tirashan.”

“A map,” Viago stated flatly. “Do you have any proof it is authentic?”

“It belonged to my father. He ventured to the location once before and came back with some interesting artifacts.”

Illario pasted a grin on his face. “Well now, there we are!” He turned to Viago. “See, Eduardo? There is something to Tractus’s plan after all!”

“So he says,” Viago muttered. “But this is all still just air and dreams. I want to see the map.”

Tractus gulped. “But surely, my word as a—”

“No map, no financial backing, no expedition. And that is final.”

Illario watched as Tractus squirmed, like a fish on a hook. He was still trying to give the illusion that he was thinking about Viago’s offer, but it was clear that there was no way Tractus would turn them down now.

He glanced at a nearby building, focusing on a specific third-floor balcony. A slight shift in the shadows, imperceptible by anyone who did not know what to look for, told him that Lucanis was watching and ready to move. All they had to do was get Tractus to take them to the map.

“I will show it to you,” Tractus finally said, his voice raspy from the cold and from anxiety. “I have rooms in one of the nearby buildings; I can show the map to you, along with some artifacts from the site. That will be enough, yes?”

“We shall see,” Viago intoned, but gestured towards the door. “Lead the way.”

Chapter Text

Waiting on cold balconies was nothing new to Lucanis. When he and Illario had been boys Caterina had frequently locked them out of the house in the dead of winter in order to teach them to find ways to sneak back in, whether that was by picking locks or climbing up to windows or the roof. He could still remember the stiffness of his fingers as he climbed a trellis to get up to a window, and how blue Illario’s fingers had gone while trying to pick a lock.

But that was years ago, and Lucanis was well-inured to the cold by now, even in an Orlesian winter. At least the wind wasn’t damp, as it so often was in Treviso.

Finally, he saw Illario step out onto the balcony where Viago was waiting, and thank the Maker, Tractus was with him. He was too far away to hear the conversation, but he could lipread very well, and it was clear that Viago and Illario had everything well in hand, playing Tractus the way an expert angler plays a fish onto the hook. In no time at all they were moving, and he caught Illario’s look and slight nod before he followed Viago and Tractus back into the ballroom and disappeared from sight.

Lucanis sprang into action. He stood, gave himself a moment to limber up, and then jumped to grab hold of the lip of the overhang above him, pulling himself up onto the roof without alerting the couple (or was it more than two people?) loudly and enthusiastically fucking each other in the bedroom behind him.

Up on the roof the shadows were made thicker by all the lights illuminating the grounds below, but ice made the slate tiles slick. He would have to watch where he put his feet, but otherwise? This was as perfect as it was going to get.

He moved quickly over the rooftop, keeping an eye on the main ballroom to see if Illario, Viago, and Tractus had managed to exit it yet. Not seeing them there, he found a spot where the gap between the two buildings was narrowest, and took a running jump, clearing the gap just as two chevaliers passed beneath him, talking in loud, drunken voices.

Good thing no one ever looked up, he thought as he landed, only briefly skidding on the slippery tiles before he found his footing and started moving again. He kept close to the edge of the roof, waiting to see which door the others would exit from.

Fortunately, he did not have to wait long. He caught sight of Illario’s extravagant blue-and-orange costume emerging from the northwestern exit, and he quickly followed them, jumping from roof to roof or balancing over narrow beams or the tops of arbors as they traversed the grounds of the Winter Palace, clearly heading towards one of the ambassadorial residences on the far side of the Palace’s grounds. This was both a good thing, and a bad thing: good, because it meant that they could kill Tractus without alerting too many people; bad, because the buildings were getting further and further apart, and it meant that Lucanis would have to soon abandon the safety of the rooftops for a riskier trip on the ground.

Movement out of the corner of his eye caught his attention as he landed on another rooftop: the last one before he had to climb down to ground level. He ignored it at first, thinking it was a bat pursuing its prey, but when the motion persisted and gained the quality of something more humanoid, he stopped, and turned, drawing his dagger as he faced the threat.

There was a person standing on the roof opposite from him. They were dressed in dark clothes that did not look like a costume, and their face was covered in a black velvet mask that erased practically all their features except for their pale eyes, which were visible through the mask’s eyeholes.

This was no ordinary partygoer. This was an assassin of the House of Repose.

“I have no quarrel with the Repose,” Lucanis said then, keeping his voice steady, and his hand on his dagger even steadier. “Let me go on my way, and I shall let you go on yours.”

The Repose assassin sighed, the sound distorted by their mask. “Alas, Corneille , I cannot let you leave, as I do have a quarrel with yo— Ack! ”

Lucanis tightened his grip on his dagger as someone else came up behind the assassin and grabbed them around the neck with a garotte. The dark-garbed assassin struggled against the hold of whoever was strangling them, but was clearly failing to get away. Slowly, the Repose assassin ceased to move, and their killer lowered them slowly to the roof, revealing themself to Lucanis.

It was an elf, dressed in a costume and mask that mimicked the striking white and bluish-black coloration of the falco pellegrino. Like the bird they sought to imitate, they wore a dark hood pulled over their head, which did not hide from Lucanis the pointed tips of their ears, or their short, light blond hair.

“Peace, Corneille ,” the elf said, lifting their hands out to their sides to show that they bore no weapons. The gesture also had the effect of spreading the cape of their costume, so they looked like a hunting bird about to take flight - or to land on its prey. “We have no quarrel.”

Lucanis raised an eyebrow. “You say one thing, but that other fellow said another. I am uncertain who to believe.”

The elf smiled wryly, their bright green eyes glinting behind their mask. “I am alive, and my erstwhile comrade is dead. Moreover, I am willing to let you go about your business. So which of us shall you believe?”

Lucanis stared at the elf, determining what the best course of action would be. On one hand, he could kill them, which would guarantee that he and his fellow Crows would be safe. But that would take time, and already he could see the others heading further to the northwest. If he did not get moving, he would miss the rendezvous, and who knew what measures Viago and Illario would be forced to take?

With that in mind, he sheathed his dagger, and took a cautious step back, indicating that he was preparing to leave, but that he was also still very aware of the elf’s movements. “Very well,” he said, staring the elf straight in the eye. “You go about your business, and I and my companions will go about ours.”

“As you say,” the elf said agreeably, and then he knelt down to pick up the dead assassin, throwing the body over their shoulder in a smooth show of strength. “I shall leave you now. Good hunting.” And with that, they jumped off the edge of the roof, likely to land on a balcony below.

It was only as Lucanis was climbing down a trellis back to ground level, darting from shadow to shadow as he ran to catch up with the others, that he realized something. The elf had said “erstwhile comrade”. That meant they, themself, were a Repose assassin. And yet the elf had killed one of their own.

What was going on?

Every beat of Renata’s heart seemed to tighten the grip of panic around her throat as she moved in a seemingly unhurried, yet swift, pace through the ballroom, doing a sweep of the area as she searched for Josephine. She tried her best not to be rude to those who tried to talk with her or who asked her to dance, but every second she spent extricating herself from yet another invitation to a card game or a poetry recital or, in one instance, an orgy, was a second wasted.

Careless, she scolded herself, as she darted between two partygoers as quick as she could before one of them could grab her hand and tug her onto the dance floor. She had been careless , allowing herself to get distracted that way. She should have just let the alción go with a polite nod, should have kept going with Josephine, should not have lost sight of the person she was here to protect.

I made a mistake.

The phrase looped through her mind over and over, and at first it sounded like her own voice saying the words, but it was not long until it was no longer her inner self saying them, but her mother, echoing with her cold, implacable tone.

I made a mistake.

I made a mistake.

“You are a mistake.”

Someone grabbed her wrist then, pulling her hard to the side. She tripped, stumbling on the hem of her gown, but instinct quickly took over: she used the momentum of the pull and the near-fall to turn to the side, twisting her arm out of her captor’s grip to spin herself around as though dancing with a partner in a waltz.

Uno, due, tre… Her body instantly found the rhythm as she continued to spin so that the skirt and trailing sleeves of her gown spun along with her: a swallow in twirling flight. The swirls of white and shimmering blue-black disguised how she reached into a discreet slit in her skirt that let her pull out the stiletto she had strapped to her thigh, even as they also disguised the direction of her movement.

Uno, due, tre… Beneath her skirt her feet pushed and pivoted in tight, disciplined circles, spinning her until she was behind her attacker, who, still unable to place her exact location because of the swirling fabric of her costume, did not realize they were now vulnerable. She kicked them hard in the back so they slammed front-first against the wall, whereupon she slid her stiletto under their jaw, right against their jugular, so they understood that their positions were now reversed, that she was the captor, and they the captive.

It was only when the rush of the moment had dissipated somewhat that she was able to take in more details of her surroundings. They were in a quiet hallway off the main ballroom, obscured from the party by a thick curtain - which explained why she had not noticed her assailant in the first place. The hallway was lit by wall sconces of Serault glass, bright enough to see by but not so bright as to be seen beyond the curtain. In their light, she took in the person who had accosted her, and felt a chill go down her spine: an elf who was a bit taller than her, dressed in the glowing yellows and deep blacks of the Orlesian loriot .

She had attacked one of the ball’s attendees. Oh, Viago was going to kill her when this was over.

“It is not polite to accost a lady the way you have,” she said, keeping her tone as calm as she could.

The elf let out a soft, somewhat wheezing laugh. “And had I known that the Corneille dressed as a hirondelle danced as prettily as her chosen disguise, I would have taken greater care.”

Renata blinked. Corneille: that was the Orlesian word for “crow.” That they called her such meant that they knew she was a Crow, which meant only one thing: they were a member of the House of Repose.

She pressed her blade just a little more tightly against the side of the elf’s neck. “Who are you?”

The elf turned their face to the side, and Renata caught a glimpse of light amber eyes behind a bright yellow mask. “And who is asking? The Corneille or the hirondelle? Because for a chance to dance with the latter a man such as I may be convinced to give my name, and more besides.”

Maker, was this man flirting with her? “Does it matter?

“Hmm, I suppose not. Very well, if you remove your claw from my neck I will answer your questions.”

“Or I could slit your throat and be sure of my safety.”

“If you did that, you will not know what has happened to your grue demoiselle. ”

At first Renata did not know what he meant by “ grue demoiselle”, but then her Orlesian vocabulary came back to her and she remembered that that was what the Orlesians called the zaida . He was referring to Josephine.

Slowly, she withdrew her stiletto, but let the tip of it nick the man’s neck just a tiny bit: a warning, and a reminder, that she was still dangerous.

The elf hissed at the injury as he turned to face her. He touched the side of his neck where she had nicked his light gold-brown skin, and briefly contemplated the blood that gleamed on his fingertips when he pulled them away from the injury. He looked at her, and grinned. “Your warning is taken, though I think you should know that there are some who would consider it a flirtation.”

Renata resisted the urge to roll her eyes. “Who are you?”

The elf swept her an extravagant bow. “I am Charibert Leusignac, of the House of Repose. At your service.”

“Where is my companion?” Renata demanded, quickly losing patience with all the theatrics.

“Tut, tut,” Charibert scolded gently as he straightened. “Haste does not become you. The grue demoiselle is quite safe, I assure you.”

“And I am supposed to take your word for it, when it is the House of Repose who is out to kill her?”

“No, but will a body convince you?”

The voice came from behind her, and once more Renata acted on instinct: she flicked her right arm out towards the source, releasing the small dart she had clipped to a special holder just below her elbow. A small grunt told her she had struck her target.

Charibert looked somewhere over her shoulder, and smiled wickedly. “There you are, Zephirin. Right on time, as always. And what a fine present he has brought for you, petite hirondelle.”

The person behind her grumbled in Orlesian, his voice too soft to make out the words, but he did move closer to stand beside Charibert: another elf, dressed in the colors and markings of a falco pellegrino, with light blond hair and bright green eyes behind a blue-black mask, the eyeholes ringed in yellow. He was gently touching a small cut on his cheek (where the dart had struck him before he dodged it, no doubt) with his free hand, while his other arm held in place a body that he had thrown over his shoulder.

The blond elf leaned forward, dropping the body at Renata’s feet, and kicked it in the side to roll it over onto its back. This revealed that the dead person was wearing a perfectly blank, plain black mask, one with no features except for the eyeholes cut into it to allow the wearer to see.

Renata glanced up (Maker but he was tall ) at the newcomer, whom Charibert had called Zephirin. “What is this supposed to mean?”

“There is a schism in the House of Repose,” Zephirin said, his tone more serious than Charibert’s. “Ever since Empress Celene and then Divine Victoria came to their respective thrones, Orlais has been more…unsettled than usual.”

Charibert tsked. “Let’s not mince words with a fellow professional, Zephirin.” He turned to Renata. “The long and short of it is that there are those in Orlais who are not happy with the progressiveness shown by our Empress and the Divine - including those in the House of Repose. We are, therefore, a House divided. Some, such as myself and dear Zephirin here, are appreciative of these new winds of change; others, such as that fellow at your feet there, are far less so.”

“Which means,” Zephirin continued, “that you and your companion are caught in the middle. The contract on the Montilyets ought to have no longer applied when the Du Paraquettes had it withdrawn; but since, as Charibert has said, we are a House divided, there are those who would not honor that withdrawal, given that the Montilyets are firm allies of Divine Victoria.”

It did not take Renata very long to do the math. “You are helping me then,” she said, choosing her words carefully, “because those who are trying to kill my companion are against you.”

“Indeed,” Charibert replied, sounding remarkably cheerful for a man who had just told her that his entire organization was engaged in an internal war. “Enemy of our enemy and all that.”

Renata nodded, thinking quickly. This was vital information: not only for herself, but also for the Crows - and for the Divine.

“Very well.” Renata carefully sheathed her stiletto as a sign of goodwill. “I will cooperate with the House of Repose tonight - or at least, the side that you belong to.”

Charibert beamed, while Zephirin gave a small, amused smile.

“Excellent!” the former declared. “Then you will want to know where the rest of our erstwhile comrades are hiding, as well as where your lovely ambassador has been all this time.”

“All of that would be wonderful.” Renata tilted her head, eyeing them both. “And in exchange?”

“We ask that you carry word to Antiva, to Lady Seryl, and to the Divine,” Zephirin replied. “Tell them what we have told you about the House of Repose. And ask your Talons to stay out of Orlais as much as possible. There are those of us who respect the unspoken concord between our organizations, but there are many who would happily ignore it if it suited them.”

Renata nodded. She would have done all of that anyway, so it was no hardship to agree. “As you say. Now: tell me where my companion is.”

Zephirin gestured, lifting an arm and pointing to the northwest. “Ambassador Montilyet is in Lady Seryl’s residence, enjoying tea and cakes, last I saw her. As for the assassins hunting her, one of them is lying there, at your feet. The other two are in the loft of Lady Seryl’s carriage house, waiting to ambush the Lady Ambassador as she leaves to return to the Antivan embassy.” His smile widened. “I am certain you shall have no problems disposing of them.”

Charibert made a disappointed sound. “And here I was hoping you would say we should go with her and help.”

“She needs no help from us,” Zephirin said, tone flat.

“Yes, but I wanted to dance with her!”

Renata blinked. “Excuse me?”

Charibert smiled flirtatiously at her. “I saw how you moved, petite hirondelle. It’s clear you are one of those rare Corneilles who dances with death instead of merely delivering it. I just wanted to work with you, or to see you work. But I understand if your sense of professionalism precludes a partnership; if that is the case, perhaps we can dance together later at the ball?”

Zephirin sighed: a long-suffering sound, but one that was also warm with fondness. “Charibert—”

Charibert smiled up at Zephirin. “Ahh, but didn’t you say to me once that you would be amenable to welcoming another into our arrangement, mon chéri ?” He then turned to Renata, and gave her a slow, assessing, up-and-down look that made her blush. “I think she would look lovely between us. Don’t you?”

Oh Maker . Was he saying what she thought he was saying? She looked at Zephirin, hoping that he would apologize for Charibert and say it was all just a joke, but instead, she was met by a green gaze that burned with a heat she could practically feel against her skin.

Zephirin did the same up-and-down look that Charibert did, and said, softly: “I agree she would look lovely between us, mon coeur.” Then he turned back to his companion, his smile wry. “But now is not the time. Besides, she deserves to be wooed, no?”

“I think I shall go now,” Renata squeaked as she walked past the couple, knowing there was nothing dignified or graceful about anything she was doing in the moment. “Still much to do. Good night, Signori, and thank you for the information.”

“Save some dances for us if you are free later, petite hirondelle!” Charibert called behind her, his voice and laughter chasing her back out into the ballroom. The sound of it filled her mind even as she made her way through the ballroom and out onto the grounds, heading for Lady Seryl’s carriage house.

And as she did so, she asked herself: had that really just happened? Had not one, but two members of the House of Repose not only flirted with her, but invited her to join them in a— What was the Orlesian term for it? Ménage à trois? The whole thing was so shocking because she had never once imagined that anyone would even want to flirt with her, much less sleep with her. It had been surprising enough when the alción had asked to dance with her, but this? It was unprecedented. Mind-boggling.

She slowed her steps as she neared the carriage house, forcing herself to move more stealthily the closer she got. Now was not the time to think of Orlesian assassins flirting with her and trying to get into her skirts, she told herself as she circled the building, looking for a way up. It was something for later: much later, when she was back in Treviso and could talk to Teia somewhere private and far away from Viago.

For now, she had a contract to salvage, and information to deliver. Best to focus on those tasks and get them done before the night took another turn and something else happened.

Chapter Text

Some jobs, Lucanis knew, were more complicated than others. For instance, the contract for Ambrose Forfex had turned out much more complicated than he had anticipated, though he would admit that that was largely due to his own actions in the heat of the moment. He had tried to control his rage, tried to do as Illario had advised him, but he could not stand to see the suffering of the slaves he and his cousin had found in that basement, and so he had set them free - free to kill, to slaughter, and most importantly, exact their revenge on the man who had tormented them. It had made escaping the scene far more difficult, but seeing that loathsome Venatori die at the hands of those he had tortured was the most satisfying thing about the whole thing.

By contrast, this job to kill Tractus Danarius had gone incredibly smoothly. Once he had caught up with Illario and Viago after that interlude with the House of Repose, it had been no trouble to climb up to the window right above the desk in Tractus’s room, open it while Illario and Viago distracted him, and then climb in and kill him by slitting his throat from behind.

“The Crows send their regards,” Lucanis murmured as he lowered the dying Tractus to the floor, waiting for the light to go out of his eyes before he sheathed his dagger, and stood up to look at his companions. “It is done.”

“Finally!” Illario exclaimed, rolling his shoulders and stretching his neck. “Do you still need me on cleanup, cousin?”

Lucanis glanced at the body at his feet. “No, I do not think cleanup will be necessary. Best to leave him like this as a message.”

“Right. Well, if that is it, I’ll head back to the ball. I have an appointment to keep.” And with that, Illario brushed past Lucanis, and climbed out the window that Lucanis had used to get in. Once he was down on ground level, he began whistling cheerfully to himself as he made his way back to the ball: some ballad about a swallow, if Lucanis was hearing it right.

The sound of rustling paper drew Lucanis’s attention to Viago, who was busily going through a folio he had pulled out from one of the desk drawers. The Fifth Talon muttered quietly to himself as he flicked through various documents, and then stilled over one particular one.

“Here it is,” he said, his voice filled with satisfaction, the rasp of vellum drawing Lucanis’s attention to what Viago had found.

It was, as Tractus had promised, a map of the Tirashan, marked with small sigils that probably indicated important locations, though without a legend it was hard to determine what each symbol meant. One location on the far west of the map was heavily encircled, which suggested that that particular spot was more important than all the others: probably the site of the elven ruins that Tractus wanted to go to.

“So he was telling the truth,” Lucanis murmured as Viago folded the map away and tucked it into an inside pocket of his waistcoat for safekeeping.

“About this? Yes, fortunately.” Viago stared down at the other papers, and the way he frowned in concentration reminded Lucanis of why he had been so intensely attracted to this man when he was younger - enough to send him a custom-made dagger in an attempt to woo him. That had not worked out, sadly, and Lucanis’s crush had waned with time.

Lucanis gestured to the papers. “Do you need help sorting through these?”

“Hm? No, thank you, I can do it myself.” Viago looked up at him, and a wry smile crossed his lips. “I will be fine here, Lucanis. It might be better if you kept an eye on Illario. Who knows what kind of trouble he will get himself into with this appointment of his?”

Lucanis sighed, knowing Viago had a point. “Very well. If you find any information related to the Venatori—”

“I will share it with you, worry not.”

“Thank you. I shall see you in Treviso then. Keep safe, Viago.”

Just before Lucanis climbed out the window, though, Viago called back to him: “Lucanis.”

“What?”

“You might want to change if you are going to the ballroom.” Viago gestured, and when Lucanis looked down, he saw a massive bloodstain across the front of his clothes.

Lucanis sighed in annoyance. “Mierda. Time to find that costume.”

“I truly am sorry for scaring you.”

Renata smiled, and gently patted Josephine’s arm where it was looped through her own. “It is all right, Josephine. It was my fault anyway, for losing sight of you.”

The two of them were back once more in the ballroom, walking around the perimeter of the dance floor as they had earlier that evening, but this time in a somewhat more relaxed manner. Renata remained watchful, of course, but she was able to breathe a little easier now that she had disposed of the two Repose assassins in Lady Seryl’s carriage house.

“You made quite the impression with Lady Seryl,” Josephine remarked as she nodded at an acquaintance who had greeted her. “And, like Lady Briala, she seemed to know you.”

Renata nodded, and pitched her voice low so that only Josephine would hear her. “I met Lady Seryl on the same occasion I met Lady Briala.”

“And left the same good impression, I’d imagine.” Josephine’s voice lowered as well, and she said: “You are certain about what you told us? About the House of Repose.”

“I have no reason to disbelieve the ones who passed me the information. It certainly explains why the Repose continue to hunt you, after all.”

“True. But it is troubling that even the Repose are as fractured as they are. Normally they are above such politics. For them to be engaged in a shadow war against each other is…unnerving.” Josephine looked around. “Come, there is Lady Briala. We must give her the news.”

Renata moved in tandem with Josephine as the two of them headed in the direction of Lady Briala, who was seated in an alcove off to the side of the ballroom, watching the proceedings. Upon seeing them approaching, she tilted her head in curiosity. “Ambassador Montilyet. Lady Adelina. A pleasure to see you both again.”

Josephine and Renata greeted her with the respect she was due. “Good evening, Marquise,” Josephine said. “Might we have a moment of your time? We would like to thank you personally for your hospitality tonight.”

Renata knew what this was: a passphrase, the same one that she and Viago had used five years ago in Jader. It meant that they had important information to pass to Lady Briala, and that it had to be done in private, far away from any potentially prying ears.

For a long moment, Lady Briala said nothing, but at length, she stood, and smiled. “Of course, Ambassador. It is pleasing to know that you are enjoying our revelries tonight. Allow me to repay your gratitude. Come this way.”

Renata and Josephine followed Lady Briala as she led them down a hallway and into a study, the walls lined with shelves crammed haphazardly with books, kept warm against the winter’s chill by magical braziers, and lit by magical lamps: no fire, likely because of all the paper in the room. There, behind a desk, was seated Empress Celene I, going over papers with another person whose back was turned to them as they entered.

Empress Celene glanced at them, and a small smile crossed her face as Renata curtsied, and Josephine bowed, to her. “Welcome back to Halamshiral, Ambassador Montilyet.”

At the mention of Josephine’s name, the person Celene had been speaking to turned, and Renata realized that it was none other than Divine Victoria herself.

“Good to see you are undamaged, Josie,” the Divine remarked, smiling fondly at Josephine as the ambassador straightened. She glanced at Renata, and nodded in approval. “Varric was right to recommend you to me, Crow. He said you would get this job done well.”

Renata lowered her gaze, hoping that the Divine read it as respect, and not an attempt to cover up her shock at being in the same room as the two most powerful people in Southern Thedas. “I am only glad I fulfilled your expectations, Your Holiness.”

“Indeed.” At that, Divine Victoria’s expression sobered. “Lady Briala would not have brought you to us if it was not important. Has something happened?”

“You were right about the House of Repose,” Josephine said, her voice low and serious as she glanced at each of the three women in the room in turn. “I know we all suspected something had gone awry with them, not least because they continued hunting me despite the withdrawal of the contract, but now we have confirmation from two of their own.”

Divine Victoria raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”

“I have the information directly from two Repose assassins, Your Holiness,” Renata replied. “They told me that the political situation in Orlais has created a rift in their organization, splitting them along more or less the same lines as those currently dividing the rest of Orlesian society.”

“Were they elves?” Lady Briala asked, and Renata nodded.

“Then it is the same schism we find amongst the nobility,” Empress Celene said, and Renata thought she sounded very old, and very weary. “This is not ideal.”

“No, it is not,” Divine Victoria agreed, but where the Empress sounded weary, she sounded determined. “But then, changing Orlais was not going to be easy. We all knew that when we started on this grand project.”

“Indeed.” Empress Celene glanced at Renata, her gaze seeming to roam over her, until she finally settled on Renata’s face. “Unless I am quite mistaken, you are still a young woman, are you not, Crow? I suggest you go out and rejoin the ball, perhaps take a few turns on the dance floor. Ambassador Montilyet will be quite safe here with us.”

Renata straightened, and looked Empress Celene in the eye. “With all due respect, Your Majesty, that is not what my contract has stipulated.”

“And since I issued the contract, I can adjust its terms,” Divine Victoria stated. “Do as Her Majesty says, Crow. Come back after a dance or two, or Josie shall find you if we finish earlier.”

Was there anything else she could say to that? Renata curtsied again, and did as she was commanded, slipping out the door and heading back to the ballroom as quietly as she could.

For the first time that night, Renata realized, she was free of the burden of her contract. She had no one to watch out for, no one to think about, except herself. She could do as she pleased with her time.

It was both liberating, and terrifying, at the same time.

What was she supposed to do ? She did not know anyone here; despite being introduced to what had felt like half the attendees she had not had the time to get to know any them - in fact it was highly likely they had already forgotten her. Without Josephine’s company as an anchor, she was adrift in a sea she did not know how to navigate, uncertain of where to go, what to do.

That was when she saw the averla. She was not entirely sure why they had caught her attention, just that a gap in the crowd opened momentarily, and she saw them standing there on the opposite side of the ballroom from where she was. She supposed it was the perfect simplicity of their costume that had drawn her attention: the reddish-brown sleeves striking against their pink-tinged white shirt and trousers, with a gray cape flowing down their back and a gray hood covering their head, framing the rakish black mask they wore on their face. Compared to everyone else at the ball, this costume was calculated to fit in, but also to be unnoticeable in its mundanity.

And yet she could not take her eyes off them. There was something about the way they stood there, their head turning slowly back and forth, that made it difficult to tear her gaze away: a lethality at rest, waiting to spring into deadly action. It was a magnetic energy, one that made her want to draw them closer to her, to hold that baleful power in her arms and make it her own.

What would it be like, she wondered, to dance with them? To entangle herself in the wings of a dangerous butcher bird?

“Ah, there you are, Signorina Rondine!”

Renata resisted the urge to jump in surprise as her view of the averla was blocked by a riot of blue and orange. The alción had found her.

“Signore Alción,” she greeted, curtsying briefly in an attempt to calm herself and hide her surprise. “I hope your friend is well? I do not see him with you.”

“Oh, him? Poor man drank more than he should; I returned him to his rooms to sleep it off.”

The orchestra started up a new melody then, and he grinned, holding his hand out to her as all around them, other dancers made their way to the floor. “Shall we, Signorina Rondine? I have looked forward to this all night.”

Renata smiled, and placed her hand in the alción’s. “Gladly, Signore.”

Lucanis was not comfortable in crowds. He did not dislike them as much as Viago, but he did not always feel comfortable in them, either. He preferred being on the edge of a crowd as opposed to the middle of one, with a wall behind his back and a good vantage point of everyone passing by.

Sadly, that was not something he could do in this instance, as the only way to find Illario in this crowd was to either get to a higher vantage point and look down, or to plunge into the crowd itself and find him that way. And since climbing up to the beams overhead in his averla costume would call far too much unwanted attention to himself, there really was only one path open to him.

So into the crowd he went, trying to catch a glimpse of the bright blue-and-orange costume that Illario was wearing: a far more difficult task than he’d initially thought, given that every person in this ballroom seemed determined to out-dazzle everyone else. What he needed was some space: a place where he could catch a breath and get a clear line of sight that was not interrupted by some Orlesian noble’s attempt to (poorly and in bad taste) mimic some outlandish Rivaini bird.

He found it on the very edge of the dance floor, during a brief interlude between two dances as the orchestra prepared itself for the next set. As the crowd on the floor thinned, moving towards the edges in preparation for the next set of dancers, it became easier to actually get a good look at individuals, and therefore attempt to figure out if his cousin was among them.

That was when he saw the rondine . They were standing on the edge of the dance floor, like he was, but unlike the people around them the simplicity of their costume made them stand out. Were they avoiding attention? Did they feel as lost as he did, in the midst of all this chaos?

And then the blue-and-orange costume he had been looking for seemingly materialized out of thin air, and he watched as Illario bowed to the rondine , holding his hand out to them in an invitation to dance. All around him people were starting to gravitate back onto the dance floor, and somewhere else the orchestra was already playing, but all he could do was stand there and watch as the rondine smiled up at his cousin, and put their hand in his to accept his invitation.

And once they were in motion, Lucanis found he was unable to look away, hypnotized by the rondine’s flight. Illario was a good dancer, better than himself, he knew, but the rondine was something else entirely. They danced with an almost aching elegance, their grace unmatched by anyone on the dance floor, including Illario: so beautiful that watching them made Lucanis’s heart fill with yearning for something he could not even name.

He wanted to dance with them, to know what it would feel like to be tangled in the rondine’s wings. He wanted to hold that grace in his arms, to feel its ebb and flow beneath his fingers, to be the only one in all the world who could contain it, no matter how briefly.

And yet he knew this desire to be impossible to fulfil. How could he ever keep up with them? How could a humble butcher bird ever hope to match the flight of spring’s herald?

All too soon, it was over: the music reached a crescendo, then faded into a denouement, and the dancers bowed or curtsied to each other, as was appropriate. Lucanis watched as Illario caught the rondine’s hand, pressed a kiss to the back of it, and lifted his head to say something to them. The rondine, for their part, smiled up at Illario for a moment - and then glanced over his shoulder, right at Lucanis.

Time seemed to freeze then, as Lucanis stared past the red-and-blue mask the rondine wore on their face, and into the dark brown eyes behind it. Once again a feeling he could not name rose in his chest, and he found himself stepping forward, one hand lifting as if to reach out to them. He did not know what he was doing, precisely, only that he needed to get closer to them.

And then the moment shattered as the rondine blinked, turned their head as if someone had called their name, and disappeared into the crowd with nothing more than a flicker of iridescent dark blue.

Lucanis ignored the sudden ache in his chest at their departure, and instead focused on Illario, who was standing there looking surprisingly forlorn at having been abandoned by his dance partner.

“There you are,” Lucanis said, putting a hand on Illario’s shoulder.

Illario sighed heavily. “I didn’t even get her name.”

“Whose name?”

“The pretty rondine I was dancing with. Did you see, cousin? Ah, such a dancer!” Illario sighed again, this time distinctly captivated. “I shall never forget her.”

Neither will I, thought Lucanis. He did not think he would ever be able to erase the memory of the rondine’s dance from his mind, no matter how much time passed.

He smiled, and patted Illario as the two of them made their way out of the ballroom. “Maybe you will see her again.”

Maybe I will see her again, he thought. And while he was not the praying sort, Lucanis hoped the Maker would heed him, just this once, and put the rondine in his path once again.