Do you have some time, Varric? Snow had asked, in that carefully aimless way of his. I have a favor to ask.
What kind of favor? He'd been coy about the details, except that it involved going back into the valley to take a look at something. It sounded like an excuse if Varric had ever heard one — but an excuse for what, he wasn't sure.
It was hard to put his finger on exactly what it was about Snow that bothered him. Aside from the accusations of mass murder and terrorism, the man was devastatingly inoffensive: unassuming and unfailingly polite, at ease with servants and soldiers alike, soft-spoken yet charming when he chose to speak, and well-practiced at pretending not to notice the way his shy smiles and good looks left some people stammering. He'd endured the past few days as a murder suspect, harbinger of doom, and object of religious awe without complaint, except for wincing whenever someone called him Herald. He asked the servants their names, and Varric had yet to see him forget one. Even Cassandra seemed to like him.
So far as he could tell, Snow might well be the nicest guy in the whole of Haven. So what was it about the man that made Varric wonder whether he'd end the day bleeding out in a snowdrift somewhere?
Varric didn't have a problem with liars, per se. Everybody lied sometimes. Hell, he was an accomplished fabulist and prevaricator himself; he could admire the craft. Snow was good enough that he still found himself second-guessing whether their Herald even was lying. Not that Varric could blame him: for all Snow knew, he could find himself caught in another noose just as quickly as he'd slipped out of the last one. Under the circumstances, playing his cards close to his chest was the most sensible approach, and if there was one thing he was certain Snow wasn't, it was reckless.
But still. You know what they say about smoke and fire, Varric thought. Anybody that good at lying probably had a reason to be.
That was only half of it, though. There was also the fact that they had met before — and he was pretty sure Snow even remembered where, which made one of them. Varric had been wracking his brain trying to figure it out for days.
It had to have been in passing, he figured; he had a good memory for faces, and Snow's was too striking to forget if they'd had even one real conversation. With his pale and perfectly tousled wavy hair, brown skin, thick eyebrows, and prominent nose, Varric was vaguely reminded of their broody elven friend from Kirkwall, although the resemblance fell apart from there. Snow was practically the opposite of Fenris' grim intensity, with a half-smile that never seemed to completely vanish from the corners of his mouth and a warmth that lingered in his heavy-lidded amber eyes. He was on the tall side, even for a human, but slouched; he had the muscle tone of a soldier, but his movements were lazy, relaxed. There was something deceptively placid about his expressions that occasionally lured one into wondering if he was a bit simple, like a pitcher-plant drawing flies with the scent of honey.
For a protagonist, it was great stuff, just the right mix of superficial charm and hidden depths to keep the reader turning pages. But for someone carrying several knives and leading him alone into the mountains on a flimsy pretense, it left an uneasy pit in Varric's stomach.
There was his answer, anyway, to the first question. Regardless of why Snow gave him the creeps, Varric was too damned curious to turn down the chance to figure out what his deal was.
"Down here," Snow called over his shoulder, ignoring the ruined bridge and instead diverting down the slope toward the frozen river below. Varric followed after a moment's hesitation, picking his steps more slowly than his guide, who was already testing the ice below by the time he'd made it halfway down.
"So," Varric asked wryly, "is this the part where you kill me?"
Snow shot him a quizzical smile over his shoulder, looking more bemused than offended. "You thought I was planning to kill you, and agreed to come anyway?"
"Well, if my self-preservation instinct were intact, I'd be on my way down the mountain already."
Snow laughed, and to his credit managed not to sound villainous at all.
"Then what is this about?"
Snow stopped and turned back to face him, a dozen paces across the ice. The smile on his face lingered, but his eyes were intent. After a long pause, he replied: "We've met before."
Aha. So that was it, after all. "Yeah," Varric said, studying his expression closely but not finding much. He must be damned good at Wicked Grace. "We have."
Snow paused another beat, maybe waiting to see if Varric would volunteer more, before continuing. "A few years ago, in Kirkwall. Fool's Wager Tavern." His voice was soft and level, perfectly calm despite his unblinking gaze. "Negotiating a protection agreement for a shipment."
Son of a bitch, Varric thought. That was it. Snow hadn't said a word, as he recalled, just spent the meeting leaning against the wall by the door to the backroom as Varric and the negotiator worked out a deal.
The Carta negotiator. They didn't let just anybody run a protection racket in Kirkwall.
Varric breathed out a scoffing laugh and folded his arms over his chest. "No shit." That did explain why he'd spent most of the walk out here braced for a knife between the ribs — and why Snow had been keen to have this conversation outside Haven. Back then, Varric had been too focused on the sharp-eyed dwarf on the other side of the negotiating table to pay much attention to what he'd assumed was a simple guard. It wasn't that uncommon to find humans or elves among the Carta's ranks — it came in handy to have someone on the payroll who nobody would suspect of being a member of your ethnic mob — but it had struck him as weird that they'd let a random goon in the deal room.
Snow was still watching him carefully, those sleepy eyes suddenly sharp, that small-talk smile waiting patiently by the corners of his mouth. Not such a random goon after all, huh.
"Why tell me now?" Varric asked. Might as well play dumb, see what else Snow had up his sleeve. A knife, in all likelihood, although it really didn't need to come to that.
Snow shrugged. "I wanted to clear the air. I wasn't sure if you remembered me, but I didn't want you wondering whether there was a blade at your throat, if you did."
Varric snorted. He wasn't about to take Snow's word that there wasn't one just yet, but he'd probably be just as cautious if he was the guy keeping his gang ties a secret. "Yeah, well. Thanks for that."
Snow just smiled, then turned and began to walk along the riverbank.
"Leliana will find out, you know," Varric said, cautiously trailing after him. If that was all, where were they going?
"I know," Snow replied, sounding untroubled. "I just want her to hear it from me first."
Smart man. "Well, I won't run and tattle, if that's what you're worried about." The last thing he needed was Cassandra on his case about why he'd ever worked with the Carta, as if she knew the first thing about business in Kirkwall. "Just don't get me caught up in it, alright?"
"I won't breathe a word." Without turning, Snow drew his sword in a casual, unhurried motion. Varric tensed — while he remained well out of sword's length, he'd seen how quickly the man could move when he wanted to, however languid he might appear — but Snow paid him no attention, instead dragging the blade through the snowdrift along the bank. The hell was he doing?
Varric paused, but no explanation came. "Is that all you brought me out here for, or...?"
"No." A sudden clank rang out as the sword hit metal, buried beneath the snowfall. With his boot, he cleared away some of the snow, revealing two sollerets lying at an awkward angle — templar make, if Varric wasn't mistaken, but he was no expert. He was looking for a body?
"Hold this, would you?" Snow asked, holding the sword out by the blade. Varric was caught between reluctance and curiosity as he stepped closer and took it by the proffered handle. Snow bent down to grasp the corpse's boots, hauling it a couple feet out of the snow with a grunt of exertion. Varric had to admit he was as impressed as he was perplexed; the poor bastard had to be heavy, between the plate armor and being frozen solid. Snow was even stronger than he’d thought.
"You wanted to show me a dead templar?" Varric asked, dubious. Lots of those in the valley. He must have passed this one on the way to the Breach with Cassandra, before the snowstorm a few days back.
"No," Snow replied patiently, reaching out to take his sword back before beginning to brush away the snow around the templar's chest and neck with the blade. After a few seconds, he caught the chain of a pendant on the tip of the sword, lifting it to dangle freely.
In the pale sunlight, a crystal gleamed on its dull silver chain — an evil, blood-red clot, faintly pulsing like something living.
"Shit," Varric swore, recoiling a step backwards without meaning to. "Shit. What the fuck?"
"What's a templar at the Conclave doing wearing a red lyrium pendant?" Snow asked rhetorically. That was a damned good question, and one to which Varric had no reply, except to mutter a few more curses. Snow went on. "He's not the only one. I didn't have time to check every body, but I counted three others that we passed."
Three? So at least five templars wearing Amulets of Lose-your-fucking-mind-and-die-horribly? And not just any templars — they would have sent the best of the best to the Conclave, experienced veterans who could be trusted with such a sensitive detail without losing their temper around the mages and jeopardizing the truce. If the most senior templars in the Order were carrying red lyrium around...
"Fuck's sake, get away from that thing," Varric snapped, more sharply than he intended. Snow obliged, letting the crystal drop back onto the breastplate with a clink, then stood and backed away a few paces. Varric ran a restless hand through his hair. "Shit. Why didn't you tell Cassandra right away?"
"Before or after I finished explaining that I work for the Carta?" Right, of course. As far as Snow was concerned, he was still on thin ice. "It would sound more believable coming from you. Besides —" He paused for a long beat, measuring his words with care. "I wasn't sure how she or Cullen would react."
Varric blinked. "You think they already know?"
"You know them better than I," Snow replied evenly, sheathing his sword once more. How could he sound so blase about all this? "What do you think?"
Varric folded his arms once more, and found himself beginning to pace. Cassandra was all convictions and fire, sure, but if she thought it were necessary... No. She was too principled, and even if she weren't — "Cassandra doesn't have a subtle bone in her body. She'd be the last person to get roped into a conspiracy, let alone start one. Inquisition notwithstanding."
Snow's expression didn't change. "And Cullen?"
Varric hesitated. "I... don't know him as well, but he saw what happened to Knight-Commander Meredith when she got tangled up in the stuff. I don't think he's stupid enough to try it again." Not exactly the subtle type, either. Varric paused. "You aren't wondering about Sister Leliana?"
Snow raised his eyebrows. "Do you know her well enough to speculate?"
Varric huffed a humorless laugh. "Fair point. Besides, if she's in on it..."
Snow's faint smile came creeping back, but his tone was dry. "Then we're doomed already."
As moments of levity went, this one was a bit bare-bones, but Varric supposed he'd take it. His eyes drifted back to the dead templar. The hole in the sky was one thing, but templars and red lyrium… What the hell was going on?
As he thought, he blew out a slow breath, visible for only a moment in the frigid air before the wind snatched it away. "Well," he asked with a glance back to Snow, who tore his own gaze away from the Breach to meet Varric's eyes, "you got any more surprises?"
Snow's placid facade broke into a sheepish, lopsided grin that Varric found himself returning with a half-smile of his own, despite his grim mood. With a smile like that, no wonder half the town was sweet on him already. "Not today."
"So what now, then?"
Snow sighed lightly. "Now we give them the bad news. And then, once that's done, I explain my employment history."
That made Varric pause. "She'll probably ask why you brought me out here without telling them first, you know."
"I had half my wits when I passed through here before. I wasn't sure what I'd seen," Snow replied easily. "You're our resident expert, so I wanted you to confirm my suspicions before I sent everyone on a wild goose chase."
"Right." Of course he already had his line prepared. "No need to mention the rest of it."
"I'm glad we have an understanding," Snow replied pleasantly. Varric couldn't quite decide whether to take that as an implied threat, but he didn't intend to test it. "We should head back. It'll be getting dark soon."