Sisters of Tevinter

Peacocking

     "I'm going to have words with my publisher. The first word will be 'you.' The second will be 'bastard.' They told me my crime serials aren't selling in Orlais-- so why is the Court asking me for autographs?"

     Jor smiled, sipping from the bitter glass of punch in her hand. The air was incredibly dry in here, her throat was already sore from making small talk with those who greeted her and asked her questions, offering drinks, veiled threats, names of potential family suitors and the like. Then there'd been Celene's ladies in waiting, not very subtly expressing their desire that Jor would support the Empress' point of view in the negotiations. 

     She'd found Varric by the stairs with some relief, leaning against the rail beside him to rest her aching spine. The gold was blessedly cool against her skin, there had yet to be any disturbance. The first bell of eleven had tolled, the ball wouldn't truly begin until midnight. This was just the exchange of pleasantries as the fashionably late arrived in fancy coaches before any speeches were made or the really strong drinks were served. 

     Speaking of, the Inquisitor was trying (without much success) to keep an eye on the servants and waitstaff. Made up almost entirely of elves, each slipped in and out of vision flawlessly. Inconspicuous and keeping to the sidelines, the servants kept glasses full and vases shined without any interruption, here one moment and gone the next, silent as the grave. 

     It was rather unnerving, though the noblemen seemed disturbingly used to it. Some didn't even notice the many almond eyes around nearly every pillar. She listened for names, heard none. She kept in mind Gaspard's paranoid warning. Briala. She wondered which of these elfmaids was the supposed spymaster. 

     "You alright there, Tackle?" Varric looked up at her. 

     "Oh." Jor glanced down over her shoulder, where the dance floor writhed and swirled with masks and silks. "Yeah, sorry. You were saying?" 

     "Nothing." Varric shook his head with a soft smile. "You're all tense, your shoulders are up to your ears." 

    "Oh." Jor cleared her throat and tried in vain to relax, just as another slender shape dipped out of sight with a carafe of wine, making her jump. Maker's balls. 

    "Jumpy?" 

   Jor grumbled something under her breath and rubbed her throat, grimacing. She wondered if these servants were any good with knives. If so, there'd be at least three dead nobles and no one would even know. 

   "Lovely evening." 

   Varric cocked his head to one side as Jor turned, her hands falling to her hips. Her brow furrowed. The man before her was eerily familiar, soft dark hair swept back and an amused smile dancing across his mouth. He was clothed in resplendent greens and blues, a cruelly curved beak of shimmering silver was set into his feathered sapphire mask, the tails of his high collared coat fanning out in the pattern of gold and emerald eyes behind him.

   "You look ravishing, Inquisitor. As usual," he continued. The voice tugged at a memory. 

  Jor's weary frown slowly morphed into a brilliant grin as her heartbeat kicked up in her chest. "First minister?" 

  "So you do remember me." Lord Albion swept into a low bow, his lips quirking. "I'm honored, as well as pleasantly surprised."

  "Oh, my lord." Jor gave a teasing grin. "You and the Empress seem to have created a fashion faux pas." 

   "You insult me, Inquisitor." A smile twitched the minister's mouth as he rose. "I was well aware of this coincidence."

    "Mocking royalty? Shame on you." A note of admiration colored the scholar's voice as he held out a green gloved hand. She took it carefully, unable to leash a blushing smile.