𝔬 𝔤𝔞𝔫𝑦𝔪𝔢𝔡𝔢

                           ❛  we are drifters; shapeshifters.

She’d be lying if she said she hadn’t thought long and hard about this moment.

“Duke. Duchess,” She greets as she re-enters Skyhold’s main hall, approaching the Le Telliers with her hands clasped behind her back.

Josephine is conveniently giving a tour of the castle to the minister and an entourage of a dozen minor to major Orlesian nobles, all of whom have followed her into the hall right about the time she rejoins with the Le Telliers.

The Duchess bows. The Duke does not bow. He spreads his arms wide and asks her, “Inquisitor! Have you had time to consider our position?”

“I’ve given it some thought,” she says noncommittally, offering the couple a sweeping bow of her own as she saunters up to join them. And then flips the conversation on its head. “I believe we may have had a misunderstanding. By no means am I holding your manservant captive.”

The Duke goes still, clearly sensing already that a game is afoot, but not sure what sort. His wife intercepts, tilting her head. “I beg your pardon?”

 She folds her hands in front of her, clearing her throat. She plays confused, but polite. “You were so quick to make demands and threaten our negotiations when you discovered his presence, Your Grace, that it seemed as if you thought I was holding him against his will, but such is not the case. He is free to go as he pleases.” She arches an eyebrow at the Duke. “There was no need to offer me royals in exchange for his return; I have claimed no right of ownership over him.”

“Your worship, we did not mean—”

“You are aware that slavery is outlawed in Orlais?” She deliberately raises her voice just a notch. More masked faces nearby turn to look at them with interest.

The conversation has taken a decidedly uncomfortable turn, if the Duke’s sudden, shuffling loss of words is any indication. The Duchess Le Tellier straightens, expression unreadable behind her mask, but the hand that strays to her breast expresses enough for her.

The Duke bristles then, shoulders tensing, as if preparing to defend himself against the wild accusations his guilty conscience is already predicting. But she’s thought about this. Hard. She’s not so stupid as to try and attack him outright with the truth in front of the whole hall.

Instead she raises her voice a little louder again, and with a carefully calculated frigidity in her tone asks, “Are you accusing me of keeping slaves, Your Grace?”

A hush falls over the courtiers gathered nearby. Josephine makes a show of fussing quietly and begging pardon as her tour guests suddenly become keenly interested in the unfolding drama between the Le Telliers and the Inquisitor. Solas has wandered out of the rotunda to strike up a conversation with Varric; he doesn’t look at them, but one ear clearly angles in their direction to pick up every word. Varric tilts back in his chair, eyes firmly on the table, obviously fighting off a grin.

A stupid man would be relieved that she’s failed to sniff out his own crimes in favor of an implied insult to herself, but the Duke Le Tellier is not a stupid man. He can see the second and third layers lurking in the conversation. Slavery is outlawed in Orlais—but they are in Ferelden. And while slavery is outlawed in Ferelden, too, the Le Telliers live in Orlais. It should be obvious they’re not really talking about her.

And so she’s seized control of the nature of the disagreement and backed them into a corner. By petty Orlesian standards, they’ve offered grave insult to a woman of high station, and they have an audience. If the Duke blusters and tries to deny it, he makes an ass of himself. And she’s made it clear Aristide is free to go where he wishes—if the Le Telliers try to press the matter of his return, they draws attention to himself, causing people to ask why. And making even bigger asses of both of them.

The Duke seems to sense this, because he dips his chin, exhaling sharply through his nose. “Forgive me, Your Worship. It seems we have indeed had a…misunderstanding,” he murmurs, bowing deeply in apology. All show, but he is forced to put on a show. “We meant no offense. We would not dream of slandering the Herald of Andraste so.”

The smile that spreads across her face carries all the warmth of a wolf’s grin in winter. “Excellent! I’m glad the matter is resolved,” she says, too bright, too cheerful. “Perhaps yourself and the Duchess would like to take your leave, before we have any more misunderstandings. Aristide is free to go with you, if he pleases.”

The emphasis on the last three words carries a certain, unmistakable danger with it.

Aristide has stayed long enough that she’s pretty sure he does not want to go. If he should suddenly vanish, she’ll know why.

“Of course, Inquisitor. Another time.” He takes his wife’s arm, and together the Le Telliers beat a hasty retreat out of the hall.

Solas and Varric are both grinning openly at them as they go.

Josephine excuses herself from her entourage and bustles over to join her, pleasant surprise showing on her face. “Well done! They are sufficiently flustered, I think. It will be some time before they attempt another move like that.”

Leliana appears out of the rotunda, no doubt lurking the entire time behind the doorway. She joins the two of them as well, hands folded behind her back, angling an appraising look in her direction. Rhiall inclines her head.

“They will withdraw to lick their wounds—and determine their best means of retaliation against us,” Leliana estimates coolly. “You’re sure it’s wise to make enemies of them, Inquisitor?

You were going to arrange a convenient carriage accident for them, Rhiall wants to remind her, but she bites her tongue. It’s Leliana. She’s simply testing the Inquisitor’s resolve.