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Bran had insisted on the masks. Insisted. It had been a fifteen-minute conversation (which had quickly given way to a twenty-minute argument), but in the end they had given in. The masks were a small price to pay for leaving the crowns at home, they sighed, and anyway the Orlesians likely would’ve balked at the sight of them strutting about in their finery bare faced, so the masks were fine.
In fact, the masks were more than fine. They were actually ideal.
Their past dealings aside, Bran’s understanding of their foolishness only ran so far, so no, he couldn’t yet recognize a real debate from one that was being put-on, and no, he had no idea when their smiles were genuine or convenient fabrications, so…so no, he had no way of knowing he’d literally played right into their hands. But really, that was how they preferred it.
How else were they supposed to have any fun?
As it turned out, running Kirkwall from the top wasn’t quite the same as running it from the bottom…for one, it was a hell of a lot less exciting. A few things had stayed the same—namely, people were still coming to them at all hours to yell about things they needed fixed. The paperwork they’d expected, the throwing orders about they’d expected, but the schmoozing? The sheer time-wasting monotony of making appearances? No, no they hadn’t quite been prepared for that. But if there was anything the two of them were good at, well…it was finding ways to make their own entertainment.
“What do you think?” Varric asked under his breath as he surveyed the salon. “How many?”
Hawke tittered a quiet laugh before folding her arms across her chest, her mouth a dangerous red sickle beneath the delicate lines of her mask. “How many? Please, that suggests fewer than all, and I—oh, don’t mind if I do—” she paused just long enough to grab an amuse-bouche from a passing servant’s tray, popping it into her mouth before even fully registering what it was. “I intend on getting them all.”
He snickered, doing little to keep the sound to himself. “Ambitious.”
“Thank you, I like to think big.”
The Orlesians had their Game and Hawke and Varric had their own, and the truth of the matter was such that even if no one went out of their way to insert themselves into it, it would’ve been played all the same. As it was, they didn’t have to wait too long for the festivities to begin.
“You there—Marchers! You are Marchers, aren’t you?”
The corner of Hawke’s smirk tucked itself into a barb. She turned to Varric for only a moment, dropping a salacious wink before turning to the duo bustling over to them. “What gave us away?” Like flipping a switch, her usual speaking voice twisted itself into something new, something that usually only reared its head when she was especially drunk—a particularly heavy Fereldan affect that all but ground her vowels to mush. As though it only occurred to her, she glanced down to her gown, clearly lacking any of the crinolines or petticoats Orlesian dresses were so known for, and clucked her tongue in realization. “Ah. Of course.”
“Marchers we are, my fine ladies.” For his part, Varric made a point to gruffen his voice, almost immediately regretting the decision. He’d have to think of something else for the next ones…there was no way he’d be able to keep that up for the entire affair. “Hopefully you won’t hold that against us. How can we—”
Obviously something about how they were comporting themselves told the two that they weren’t anyone to seriously concern themselves with. That was the point, of course, but oh, it never stopped being exciting when it worked out.
The one who’d called to them in the first place, a willowy woman wearing an opalescent mask that covered her from forehead to chin, sniffed airily. With careful, precise movements, she adjusted her posture to the ramrod straight poise someone of her station was expected to have, holding her arms and hands at those maddeningly Orlesian angles. “Whereabouts in the Marches?” Though her mask hid just about all of her face, her eyes were still visible, and there was impatience there, clear as day.
“Ostwick,” Varric said…just as Hawke piped in.
“Markham!”
There was a pause. To both of them it seemed to last forever, but there was little doubt in their minds that their new friends cared enough to notice.
“Ostwick by way of Markham,” Varric corrected, as though the statement meant anything.
The woman in the opal mask made a quiet sound of disappointment and turned to her companion. “You’re certain he said they were coming?”
“I could’ve sworn as much! Perhaps they decided against it…” The second woman wore a half-mask more similar to the ones they were wearing, though it appeared to be made of some dark, tempered metal inlaid with tiny gemstones. She didn’t look at either of them, instead turning her head subtly this way and that, searching the room for whoever it was they were talking about.
“It wouldn’t surprise me,” the first one said, her voice a sigh in the shape of words. “Considering who they are…”
Clearly trying to cover for her earlier faux pas, Hawke spoke up again, smiling broadly. “Are you looking for someone? Perhaps we could help. We’re very observant.”
The two ladies turned back to them as though only just remembering they were there. “Oh,” the first began, obviously sounding disappointed that their interaction was continuing. “I…” Her eyes flit to her companion, “…suppose. You are—”
Hawke dropped herself into a curtsy so ridiculous, so dramatic, that Varric had to look away for fear of bursting into laughter right there and then. That was a mistake on his part, of course, because it meant she got to choose the name, and that was always a dangerous prospect. “Lady Wilhelmina Applebottom,” she said with that same back-roads Fereldan drawl. When she straightened once more from her display, she gestured grandly to Varric. “And my lord husband—”
Years and years of this behavior kept him from smiling too widely, but it was a close thing. He set a hand humbly on his chest before taking a bow of his own, “Aloysius Applebottom.”
“Of the prestigious Applebottom family,” Hawke added helpfully.
This was the moment.
The moment that the rest of the game hinged on.
The moment that would tell them in no uncertain terms whether or not they’d been able to sell the shtick well enough for their marks to buy into it, to believe them.
To their credit, the ladies opposite them didn’t look especially convinced—but it became apparent at once that their distrust had less to do with their act and more to do with them being from the Free Marches.
“Yes…well…” The one in the opal mask began again. “Truthfully, if you’re from Markham—”
Varric held up a gentlemanly finger, “Ostwick by way of Markham.”
“…yes. I’m not entirely certain you would be able to assist us.”
Apparently less convinced in the overall aptitude of the prestigious Applebottom family than her friend was, the woman in the half-mask piped in, “There have been whispers that the newly crowned ruling family of Kirkwall would be here tonight.” She said this in a voice meant to be a whisper only in theory, more than loud enough for any passerby to easily overhear. “We were rather hoping to get a measure of them, since…well.”
Hawke looked to Varric, and though her mask hid them from his view, he could all but hear her raise her eyebrows. “Kirkwall, you say?” She made a strangely wavery noise meant to be a laugh, “I didn’t realize they’d finally found anyone fool enough to fill that spot!”
Both ladies bobbled their heads along with her, making polite sounds of distaste as they did so, and that was when they knew. Oh, that was when they knew.
If nothing else went right that night, at least they’d be able to say they got two.
“We try not to discuss Kirkwall in Ostwick by way of Markham,” Varric agreed, nodding a stiff, somber nod all the while. “You know what they say about it. But oh, if the ruling family is expected here, this afternoon, well! I’m sure we’ll all get something of a show, won’t we?”
Another disdainful sniff from behind the opal mask. “You know who they are, don’t you?” The tone of her voice suggested she was taking great pleasure in dangling each scintillating detail in front of them. “A couple of common criminals.”
Hawke gasped and pressed her palm over her heart, jingling her necklace in the process.
“Oh yes,” the one in the jeweled mask continued, “Underground thugs, the both of them! Both friends of the mad mage responsible for that massacre some years back.”
Varric made a grand show of widening his eyes and leaning forward in intrigue. “And they’re the ones in charge of the city now?” He looked to Hawke and shook his head, “I just don’t know what this world is coming to, anymore.”
“I’ve heard whispers that they stole the seat for themselves,” Opal Mask soldiered on, the impatience long-since fled from her eyes, replaced by a glee that bordered on ecstasy. “Seeing as how the one was Champion of the city during that horrendous invasion.”
“They killed the old Viscount, you know,” Jeweled Mask interrupted. She lifted a hand to shield her mouth but made no attempts to lower her voice. “And his son! It’s a travesty.”
In a motion that wasn’t quite as melodramatic as her curtsy (though it came awfully close), Hawke clapped her hands into a startled knot in front of herself. “Killed the old Viscount?!” she gasped. “The audacity!”
“The gall!” Varric added.
“The scandal!”
They could both feel each other fighting to turn and meet each other’s gaze, knowing full well such a thing would be a death sentence. It would’ve been impossible to keep from laughing, had they been forced to look at each other in that moment, and they both knew it.
“That’s simply what happens when you allow a dog lord to rise so far above their station.” Opal Mask shot Hawke a look, no doubt expecting her to react to the insult.
She would have to deal with a taste of disappointment, though, because for her part, Hawke nodded and smiled. “Damn mud farmers,” she added, the comment delivered so abruptly, so perfectly, that both ladies seemed to startle a bit at the earnestness of it. “Can’t trust a Fereldan as far as you can throw them,” she added, thickening her accent, if such a thing were possible.
Varric opened his mouth to add something to the statement, but that, of course, was when Bran finally managed to find them.
“Maker,” he hissed, walking up from behind them, his face drawn with a familiar mix of exasperation and slow-boiling indignation. “Where have you been? The Marquis…” It was only then that he realized they weren’t alone, and he quickly dropped a bow to the ladies they’d been speaking with. “Lady Dubois, Lady Lefebvre, please pardon—”
Again Opal Mask seemed to forget them entirely, turning her full attention to Bran. “Seneschal!” she began fawningly, procuring a laced fan from Maker-Knew-Where to waft primly at herself. “So it is true! All day we’ve been hearing that the Viscount and Viscountess would be attending the salon, and all day we’ve been waiting! You’re not here in their place, I hope?”
“I…” Bran paused. For a moment, his mouth continued to hang open, most likely midway through forming the first word of some rehearsed nicety. Then his mouth closed, and he looked at Hawke. Then Varric. Then Hawke again, the corners of his eyes wrinkling with something that couldn’t have been farther from a smile if his very life had depended on it. “No,” he answered flatly, still glaring coolly at Hawke, his expression only souring with each moment she continued to grin at him. “I’m afraid I am not here in their place. The Viscount and Viscountess are, in fact, attending the salon.”
It was hard to say precisely what Opal Mask was feeling, but there was a definite hint of confusion in the shape of Jeweled Mask’s mouth at that. “Oh? Well…we were so hoping to have an opportunity to meet with them, you understand. Could you be so kind as to direct us to where they are?”
Hawke’s shoulders weren’t shaking with laughter just yet. It seemed a close thing, like she was fit to burst any second. “You’re going to make us wear the crowns next time, aren’t you?”
Bran did not return her smile. Instead, he turned back to Varric, his expression familiar. ‘Her, I expected,’ that expression said, ‘But you?’
Shrugging, Varric simply smiled and hooked his thumbs into his pockets.
There was no describing what Bran’s face did when finally he realized what it was he was going to have to do. Suffice it to say both Varric and Hawke found it quite hilarious as he raised his hands up, pressing his fingers hard to his temples before forcing an artificial smile. “I have the great honor of informing you, my ladies, that you’ve already met them.” His glare returned to them so he wouldn’t have to witness the ladies’ dawning horror. “The great, great honor.”
They were absolutely going to have to wear the crowns next time.