Denerim Confidential

Chapter 10

Max slept like a rock the night after the scenarios and missed his early-morning workout for the first time in over a year. He was more annoyed with himself than was perhaps entirely warranted. Before he'd started at the Academy—the one in Ostwick, not this one—his uncle Edward, a decorated Knight-Commander, had sat him down for some frank advice.

"Everyone of note at any Circle knows who the Trevelyans are. You're going to get treated better and promoted faster because of your last name," his uncle had warned. "But unless you've been justifying those promotions by working twice as hard as anyone else, your career will be dead in its tracks before you turn thirty."

Max had briefly been tempted to just let his career stall out. But then he weighed the appeal of laziness against the heat he'd take from his family, and decided on daily workouts at dawn and saying yes every time a crappy assignment came along. But today, he was grateful to have the extra rest that came from missing his usual training, because after breakfast Greagoir had not one but two crappy assignments for him.

"Meredith Stannard is calling in a favor. I'm not sure I owe her favors, frankly, but it's less annoying to simply give her what she wants," Greagoir explained wearily after summoning Max to his office. "The Detective will be here at ten. Give him the tour, make him feel important, then walk him into your office for a redacted copy of Guerrin's transcript. We'll have it on your desk."

"Can't we just give him the whole thing? He's going to notice bits missing," Max warned. "And it's not like Alistair was a problem trainee. Wait, was he?" He'd liked the younger man, but he couldn't pretend to know everything about him—he had only been tapped as Cullen's partner during Alistair's last year at the Academy.

"No, no, nothing like that," Greagoir said with a dismissive shake of his head. "A few reprimands for smarting off to instructors, but nothing terrible. We just prefer to keep details of the Academy's training confidential. Classified. You understand."

Yeah, I understand that I'm being asked to hand half a document to a guy who already thinks we might have something to hide, Max thought wryly. Guess they think I'm likeable enough to pull it off.

He'd think about Greagoir's other assignment—investigate threats against the Grand bloody Enchanter with her frostily silent protégé by his side—later.

By nine-fifty-five Max was standing in the visitor's entrance to the main Circle building, his silver-grey suit neatly pressed and his tie cinched snug around his collar for once. The door opened, releasing a blast of cold air into the entryway, and Max couldn't help staring at the man pushing it open.

The Detective—it had to be the detective, he was wearing tailored black wool and a somber expression—was an elf, covered in silver tattoos. He was also one of the best-looking men Max had ever seen, his olive skin smooth under the markings, his features chiseled and symmetrical, his mouth fuller than most elves' and his wide eyes a startling dark green.

Max forced himself not to study the pattern of tattoos curving around that face. "Detective Leto? I'm Agent Maxwell Trevelyan," he said, offering his hand as the Detective stripped off his gloves. "I'm one of the Agents who works with Academy trainees at this Circle."

The detective brushed his palm against Max's in a strange half-handshake. Max felt a jolt that had nothing to do with the Detective's good looks. Lyrium. Andraste's ass, it's that Detective. Of course it is.

"A pleasure, Agent Trevelyan," the elf replied evenly, in a baritone voice that would have made a much uglier man desirable. He met Max's eyes but did not return his smile.

"I'm here to show you around and help tell you a bit about Alistair Guerrin's time at the Academy." Max wondered how long it would be before the Detective realized the second part was a lie.