Prologue: Rapier

A flock of mourning doves perched on the sill of the long front window of Emeritus Tavern. The door was still propped open to allow the final stragglers inside, though if Fortune had his way it would've been closed half an hour ago.

He wasn't often nervous to be in front of people. He didn't necessarily like being the center of attention, so much as it was a natural consequence of his regular tomfoolery. This time though, he'd be up on a stage talking in front of more people than there were birds at the window. It had to be over thirty—biggest flock he'd ever seen. There were shocks of vibrant white feathers mixed in with the normal soft browns and grays. It was a comfort somehow, along with the surprising amount of people he recognized and liked.

The strangers inside weren't. Solas was growing, stretching, becoming more accustomed to strangers, and he didn't like how they looked. He sat at a corner table, fidgeting with a smooth wooden pipe he'd have killed to be allowed to light right then. He'd been prepping the gallery for months, and he had a lot of confidence in it—which was the problem. Normally this sort of thing was fire-and-forget, shoot it off right away and be done with it. Drawing it out was torture, but this was finally the moment.

He'd do what he'd always done: fuck around and find out.

Carmen had been trying to convince him to do the opposite for the past half hour.

"Be honest, but don't be flippant," she was saying now. "The plan is good. If you need me to, I can, y'know, start some whispers, keep people saying the right things."

"I don't want that," he said for the fifth time. "Let 'em think what they think."

His eyes wandered the crowd again. People with nice clothes, doubting eyes, leering smirks—most of them unfamiliar. Imber had been working his ass off to spruce the place up, get it on the map, and all their eyes said was How quaint. He fought the urge to let his pickpocketing hand speak; he'd let the gallery do that.

"And I don't want to hole up in a ditch for hours again because you picked a fight you shouldn't have. We don't need that."

"That was your fault."

"I don't remember it that way." Carmen took a breath, then hung her head and released it. She gently tapped her knuckles on the refurbished table. "Really, though, I know they'll love it. Don't hold back."

"Not a skill of mine." Fortune grinned his crooked grin, his free hand playing with the cuff of his nicest black and blue shirt—one of two shirts he owned. "Thanks."

Carmen's eyes widened. "If they don't love it, I'm breaking chairs over heads."

"Only if you can afford to fix them," Imber Emeritus said as he appeared, setting a mug of something dark on the table. "People are buzzing."

Fortune clicked his tongue in his cheek. "Yeah, about that time."

Imber studied him for a second. "Wait 'til intermission to incite any riots, if you don't mind."

Fortune took a long drink to avoid inciting one there and then. He wiped his mouth and let out a long sigh. "Don't worry 'bout me."

"I'm… exceedingly worried," Carmen chimed back in. Her eyes flicked to Imber, then back to him.

"Have I not built any sort of goddamn good will around here?" Fortune groaned as he stood. But Carmen's eyes said she was telling the truth, so he turned his attitude around with another smile. "Don't. I'll charm 'em with my rapier wit."

She huffed, rolling her eyes, but looking a little more at ease.

"Ease off the damage control," he said lightly to both of them, walking to the tavern's newly installed stage. "Ain't even any damage yet."

He stood now in front of a quieting crowd, rows of chairs pushing back to halfway through the common room. The place was… bigger, since he'd gotten back. He hadn't gotten a chance to properly explore the new rooms, or bother Timmy about what new wine imports they'd gotten.

A year's worth of work stood behind him in its finished glory. Soon it wouldn't be his anymore—it would be the world's. He'd be free. But that was the furthest feeling from his heart as dozens of eyes—maybe a hundred—pinned him in place. He was definitely supposed to have said something by now.

The door was still open. A lone mournful coo-oo sound drew his gaze to the window. The doves were all watching with quiet, sad curiosity.

Fortune met the eyes of someone in the middle row. He matched their condescending smirk. "Y'all can go home," he said for all to hear, pointing to the window. "This is for my best patrons' ears only."

A breeze of uncertain laughter floated through the tavern—he resolutely did not look at Carmen. She'd be fine. He had them where he wanted them: slightly off-balance.

He shrugged as Imber pushed the door shut, and the birdsong was cut off. If they didn't like the secrets he spilled here, it wouldn't be on his head.