Chapter Text
The autumn evening in Little Arlathan is in full swing, even in this seedy apartment building: the crackle of a poorly tuned radio and the tinny voice bleating behind it, muffled arguments and laughter and the smell of tobacco. Dirt and cigarette butts litter the stained stair runner and Cassandra climbs the steps in twos, eager to be done with the place. She undoes the tie on her trench coat, feels the stretch of her leather holster across her back. She can pray for an easy interrogation, but she’s never approached a lead without protection, and she’s not about to change that for an elf who might hold the whereabouts of a missing child.
Cole de Brassard’s guardians had declared him missing over a week ago, and came to Cassandra after the Orlesian police turned up nothing. The boy kept an overwritten journal of his thoughts, stuffed with vague ramblings about the people he’d met while travelling. He’s a free spirit, apparently; his guardians told her that he all but lived on the Imperial Railway, taking the trains from Ferelden to Tevinter and everywhere in between, staying with friends for weeks on end before eventually wandering home again. She met with bartenders and Chantry sisters, mercenaries and politicians, all of whom were eager to share with her just how special he is. Of the unending list of names she pulled from his notes, one stood out: Solas. Though the crime boss hasn’t been seen in years, there have been whispers of the mob’s presence in Kirkwall, and Cole’s last known trip was out to the Free Marches.
In her mind, the disappearance is as simple as that: the boy must have gotten too involved in his “friend’s” illicit dealings, willingly or not. Though how he managed to befriend a shadow is another question entirely; picking up the mob’s trail had taken every ounce of goodwill she had remaining with the clergy in Orlais, as well as a favor from Leliana’s web of allies. The search has led her out of Orlais and into the underbelly of Kirkwall’s elven district, where all she has to go on is an abandoned apartment under a fake name, owned by a man rumored to be under Solas’s employ.
Cassandra reaches the third floor, where a faulty bulb flickers at the end of the hall. Just before it is the door labelled 3E. On either side of the apartment the tenants are playing loud, clashing music, but when she presses her ear to 3E she hears nothing. When she pulls away, the door ghosts open, just by a fraction of an inch. The wood is slightly splintered around the lock. It’s been broken into.
Everything sharpens. The surrounding sound hushes as she draws her pistol from its holster and takes one steady breath in, and out. She opens the door.
The entryway is empty save a worn pair of sandals and a long, gnarled walking stick leaning up against the wall. She stalks forward in practiced silence into a simple living room, only lit by the glare of streetlights from the windows. Before her, splayed across a broken coffee table and dripping blood into the carpet below, is the body of an elf. His eyes are closed peacefully as though he’s sleeping, and his face is lined with Dalish tattoos. Her lead is dead.
Gun drawn, Cassandra quickly checks the rest of the apartment: a bedroom with nothing but a mattress on the floor by the window and two empty suitcases; a grimy bathroom with a trashcan of ashes in the tub; and a kitchen with a still-warm kettle sitting beside the stove. No one else is here now, but someone was not long ago, and burned their trail behind them.
Her cursory search completed, she returns to the body. The wound on his forehead says he was bludgeoned. He’s wearing a bathrobe and slippers, no wallet on his person or elsewhere in the house. His name in the building’s ledger was Felassan, and whether it was real or not, he was her best bet in chasing down Solas. Could someone have predicted she’d be here? Was Felassan so loose-lipped that killing him was the only way to keep their information safe? Or perhaps he knew this attack was coming, with how peaceful the scene reads.
There’s a creak as the front door opens—
Cassandra draws her pistol on the dwarf that enters, and his hands shoot up in surprise. She quickly takes stock of him: clean hands, dry hair, a holstered gun at his hip. He tries to take a step forward, but she cocks her gun and commands, “Don’t move.”
He seems to put something together as his expression shifts to an easy smile and he says, “Ah, the Seeker. I can hardly believe the Hero of Orlais is here, stealing my crime scene.”
Cassandra scowls. “And you are?”
“Where are my manners? Varric Tethras, private eye,” he says with a bow of his head. She recognizes the name immediately. He’s something of a celebrity in Kirkwall; she had followed his work on the Hawke disappearance in the papers religiously. He has a reputation for his loose adherence to the law and fierce loyalty to his friends and clientele. And, worryingly, Cole had written about him in his journal.
She takes in his gaudy red shirt with one too many buttons undone, his golden jewelry and days-old stubble. The photos could not do this look justice. The corner of his mouth crooks as he gestures to her pistol, calm as anything, and says, “I’d come over and shake your hand, but….”
“Don’t get friendly. You can’t expect me to take you at your word.”
“No, that would be too easy, wouldn’t it,” he sighs, his hands sagging like he’s tired of holding them up. “I’ve been here about twenty minutes, found the body, chatted up the neighbor in 3F. You know, if you head over there now, I bet she’ll give you the rest of the cookies she tried to pawn off on me.”
“Be serious. A man is dead.”
“I am serious,” he says, idly looking around. He points to something behind her, but she doesn’t take her eyes off him. “Did you see the dust pattern on the side table? The lamp is missing. Bet you that was the murder weapon.”
“You’re responsible for the break-in, then?”
“No, in fact, old lady 3F is responsible for the break-in. She said she couldn’t handle the kettle screaming anymore.” She narrows her eyes at him and he continues, “I spent the last ten minutes calming her down after she found the dead body of her neighbor. I hardly got any time to investigate, and now you’re here to stick another thorn in my side. Really, Seeker, enough with the gun already.”
Cassandra waits a moment just to make him sweat before she lowers it—but does not holster it—and spares a glance at the side table he mentioned. Sure enough, there’s a clean circle in the dust with a thin line trailing off it where the cord would have been. By the time she looks back he’s already making himself at home, lifting up couch cushions to see what’s underneath. “Tell me, Mr. Tethras, why were you after this man in the first place?”
“Are we going to dance around it?” Varric replaces the cushions neatly and wanders toward the kitchen. Cassandra follows. “You and I are chasing down the Wolf,” he says, matter-of-factly.
“Solas,” she clarifies.
Varric shakes his head, “If you want to take the fun out of it, sure.” He stoops to pick up an empty bowl that was sitting under the table and sniffs at it. “Ugh. Smells like dog food.”
“And why are you after Solas?”
“I can’t look for a wanted crime boss without a reason?”
“There’s more to it than that, you have to elaborate.”
Varric scoffs and sets down the bowl, a little too hard. “I don’t have to do shit.”
“Unless you want me to have you arrested, you’ll explain.”
“And now you’re threatening me?” he laughs dryly, and places his hand on his hip, pointedly right above the mahogany grip of his gun. “I heard you and the Chantry aren’t on speaking terms anymore. Who’s gonna grant you their blessing to incarcerate little old me?”
“And I’ve heard you love to talk, dwarf, so enough with the bullshit!”
“You’re just as impatient as the rumors say—”
“I have no time for patience, my lead is dead and a child is missing!”
Any pretense of nonchalance Varric had slides off his face. “A child? What’s the kid’s name,” he demands.
“I refuse to play your game. I will not show you trust until you do the same--”
“Kieran, is the kid’s name Kieran?”
“No,” Cassandra says, and he runs a hand over his face and pushes past her out of the kitchen. She follows him, her brow furrowing. “Are you saying you’re after a missing child too? Who is this Kieran?”
“Seeker,” he says, looking down at Felassan, “this is…big. What’s his name.”
She stares at the blood already drying on the carpet. Though she doesn’t trust Varric, she thinks she can trust the dread in his voice. Eventually, she tells him, “Cole.”
“...Shit.”
A knock at the door, and both of them spin around to see an old woman in the doorway, looking sheepish.
“Mr. Tethras?” she says, “Is everything alright? The police should be here soon.”
“Yeah,” Varric replies, voice tight. He looks up at Cassandra for a moment, studying her, some unreadable mix of emotions in his eyes (fear? indignation? guilt? accusation?), and then turns to walk toward the front door. “Come on, Seeker, let’s not wear out our welcome.”
———
The Kirkwall police station is more like a zoo. There’s a near-constant ringing of phones, officers running to and fro, and the holding cells are fit to bursting. Cassandra had given her report to an exhausted cop who told her to wait for the captain, but she’s been left sitting and watching the clock for far too long.
In fact, the entire city is a mess. She’s been to several other city-states in the Free Marches before—Starkhaven especially, for its ties to the Chantry—and each has their own charm. Not Kirkwall, though. The city is rife with crime and filled to the brim with refugees fleeing the war. Cole could’ve led her anywhere else…perhaps Antiva, at this time of year. She knew the moment her train first emerged from the tunnels under the Vinmark Mountains that this city would be different, a profound unease settling in her gut the second the first hovels on the outskirts of town came into view. This place wasn’t built for tourists.
As much as she tries to tune it out she can hear Varric chatting up a group of officers by the coffee pot, and can’t stop herself from glaring as he gestures broadly through his tale, the officers hooked on his every word. After he’d given his statement, he’d stuck around, seemingly just to soak up their attention. He probably has the entire precinct in his pocket.
His story ends with the officers’ uproarious laughter, and he bows theatrically before slowly heading towards the door. Cassandra silently wills him to leave faster, and he meets her gaze across the room as if he’d heard her. He smiles back at her scowl, winks, and struts out the door, whistling as he goes.
“Detective Pentaghast?” says a voice behind her, and it’s a lucky thing, too-- she might’ve gone after him just to wipe the smug look off his face if they’d kept her waiting any longer.
“Varric said I’d find you here. Thought I’d check before throwing him out on his ass,” says the woman, and Cassandra holds back any remarks about the dwarf to quickly stand and shake the hand she’s being offered. “Police Chief Aveline Vallen.”
Her grip is strong, her hair fiery red, and her accent Ferelden—not a woman to be trifled with. “You seem understaffed,” Cassandra says, not quite managing to hide her annoyance.
Chief Vallen just shrugs. “War will do that,” she replies, turning and gesturing for her to follow down a corridor of offices. “This your first time in Kirkwall?”
“It is.”
Aveline pushes open a frosted glass door with her name on it and they step inside. Her office is simple and well-organized, and Cassandra wishes she could say the same about her own. They take a seat on either side of a stately maplewood desk, and she tries not to look envious at the neat pile of folders in an out-tray meant for underlings to deal with. “At least tell me it isn’t your first day,” Aveline sighs, leaning back in her chair. “I’m having a hard time understanding how you managed to stumble upon a murder as soon as you got here.”
“I’m tracking down a missing person. I believe he has gotten involved with Solas.”
“Solas? The Dread Wolf?” she asks with an incredulous smile. “Not just the mob, but the boogeyman leading them?”
“Yes, well, without the victim’s statement, I’ll need whatever information on the mob your precinct has—”
“If this is Chantry business, I haven’t received notice from the OPA. Brennan was working the night shift, though, so I suppose it’s possible she forgot the report at her desk.” Aveline picks up the phone, but instead of buzzing her secretary, she starts dialing a full number, no doubt for the central offices of the Orlesian Police Authority.
“I’ve made my practice private,” Cassandra interrupts. Aveline stares at her a moment before sighing and setting the phone back in its cradle.
“I see. Well, Detective, Kirkwall is its own state. I can’t hand over police records to a private investigator just like that.”
Cassandra snorts. “Your station seemed eager to share confidential information with Varric Tethras.”
“Oh,” Aveline says, unmoved, “you’d like to talk about Varric?” She pulls a folder from the paper tray on her desk and slaps it down in front of her. “The two of you break into an apartment, tamper with evidence at an active crime scene—”
“Break in? I did no such—”
“Your statement says the neighbor did. Varric’s says he did it himself.” She taps the folder, as if Cassandra can psychically see inside it. “One of you is lying, but only one of you is licensed to operate in this state.”
So, Varric has changed his story mere hours later. Her first assumption is that he’s lied in the report, but why incriminate himself? No, more than likely he lied to the foreign investigator treading on his turf, inventing some story to keep her off his back until he could retreat to the safety of the Kirkwall Police. She wonders if he even had to bribe them to keep the break-in off his record, or if they just put it on his tab.
Gritting her teeth, she finally replies, “I arrived after the apartment had been broken into. I acted out of concern for whomever was inside.”
“I’m not going to arrest you for Varric’s slip-up. I’m aware of your reputation, and I understand what you’re trying to do. If you’re after a missing person, you have every right to search public records, and Maker knows Kirkwall still has citizen’s arrest in effect. But if you can’t deal with this quietly, I’m going to demand that you turn over your case files.”
The last thing Cassandra wants is for Cole’s disappearance to become an international incident; if he’s truly gotten mixed up with the mob, public attention on the case will only scare any hope of a lead into hiding. “You don’t have the manpower to deal with this case,” Cassandra protests.
There’s a knock at the door behind her, and she turns to see a handsome brunette peeking into the office. “...Chief.”
“Lieutenant,” Aveline smiles, then levels one last steely glare at her. “Detective Pentaghast, do we have an understanding?”
Cassandra stands and gathers her coat, clamping down on the urge to fight back. She’s reminded once again why she left the Chantry; she can still feel the rain running down the back of her neck at Byron’s funeral, eyes searching throughout the congregation, wondering how many of the mourning officers in the crowd had taken part in his murder. Trust has never come easily to her, but for good reason. “We do,” she says, and allows the Lieutenant to escort her out of the station.
———
The Three Queens is one of the cheaper hotels right on the edge of Hightown, with gaudy Antivan architecture and clearly underpaid staff. There’s a concierge skimming a magazine at the front desk and an elderly man smoking in the lounge, and other than that the lobby is empty. It’s such a stark contrast to Val Royeaux…but travel is hardly in fashion with the war going on, and even then, the economy in the two cities is hardly comparable. The clergy and their fat pockets have never been in danger of being drafted; even in the chaotic aftermath of the Divine’s death, they’ve been able to hold talks regarding her replacement in the penthouse suites of the finest hotels. That’s no coincidence.
Cassandra heads into the smoking lounge and over to the payphones in a dark corner of the room. The elderly man puts out his cigarette and offers her a raspy “good night,” and then she’s alone with the tacky Satinalia masks decorating the wall beside her.
She calls Cole’s guardians for the first time since arriving in town. They’re holding up admirably, despite everything. Evangeline de Brassard is an unshakeable woman, and she wants to hear every last detail of Cassandra’s findings; honestly, it’s ideal, as having to dance around the subject isn’t her strongest suit. Rhys on the other hand stays quiet until she’s finished her recounting of the evening, when he decides to mention that Varric had called them about an hour ago.
“Maker’s breath,” she mutters. “What did he want?”
“He wanted to know why we hadn’t called to tell him,” Rhys says, “but it’s just been so hectic, and Cole has so many friends….”
Evangeline, Maker bless her, takes the phone from him and gets straight to the point. “He asked about what Cole might’ve been doing in Kirkwall, and how much the police know about the whole thing.”
Cassandra leans her head against the wall. “And you told him?”
“Of course we did,” Rhys says firmly. “You know, he’s the one that gave Cole his first journal, to help process his feelings. I know you said Varric is a suspect, and I don’t claim to know him well, but he’s Cole’s friend.”
“Cole thinks Solas is his friend. Surely that shows his judgement is…flawed,” she says, trying to rein in her exasperation.
“I’d never heard of Solas until you mentioned him,” Evangeline insists. “Cole talks about Varric regularly.”
Cassandra pulls Cole’s journal from her coat pocket and flips through it. When she’d done her original investigation at the de Brassard’s home, she had spent most of her time searching through his entire bookcase of filled journals, and only ended up bringing the latest. In it, there’s a few pages early on about Varric—though, if his name hadn’t been mentioned, Cassandra isn’t sure that she’d have recognized it at all.
The Stone still sings in him, but he doesn’t sing. He’s dimmer when it gets cold. Lonely, longing, but still laughing. I drew a picture of his lost bird, but he made me keep it. I think it made him sad.
She’s no author, but she can feel the affection in his writing, and it goes on for several pages; it keeps drawing her back to the panic in Varric’s eyes when she mentioned Cole’s name. It’s far more than can be said for Solas’s tiny segment in the book: His name is shadows, solitude, Solas. Don’t forget, even when he wants me to.
It seems she has little choice. Cassandra goes over what little the couple knows once more, bids them good night, and then flips through the phone book to find the address of Varric Tethras.