Varric twisted sideways, narrowly avoiding a lavishly bound hardcover that had already lost its spine and most of its dignity, its pages scattering as it sailed past. He darted around the long table on his short but quick legs. The book—thick enough to concuss a mabari—was titled The Veil Guardians Of The Dragon Age. Its cover was a garish mess, featuring a hero squad rendered in an overly elaborate, tasteless style, tacky high dragons, a holy sword, and a group of elven villains who looked as though thinking would hurt them. And, of course, a sword had been driven straight through the book, leaving a ragged hole in the center.
Cassandra, clad in the uniform of the Lord Seeker, tried to corner him across the table, darting from left to right. Eight years had passed, yet she was still no closer to catching the dwarf than she had been in Skyhold. At last she slammed a gauntleted fist onto the table. The messenger bird on its stand shrieked and flapped in alarm.
“Varric Tethras, stand still! What in the Maker’s name is this supposed to be? Since when does the future of southern Thedas collapse into… this?! You’ve written yourself into some kind of indestructible nuisance—dead, alive, found dead again and alive again as some weird Fade narrator as if it were a tavern trick—and everything we fought for amounts to...nothing?! And since when is Tevinter a shining utopia? This is—absolute fabrication! Pure nonsense! I clearly overestimated your skill—and possibly your morals as well!”
She snatched up an expired operation report, crumpled it, and hurled it across the table. Varric tilted his head and let it sail past.
“If I were going to fabricate anything,” he shot back, “I'd at least have the decency to follow the trajectory of This Shit Is Weird! You build on what’s there! You don’t toss every thread from the previous tale into the fire, turn the Inquisition into fools, and write Chuckles like he’s forgotten he had a brain, just so the whole world can revolve around a handful of clueless, overprivileged and utterly UNINTERESTING heroes. And they have the nerve to claim these new protagonists are more 'down-to-earth' than the Inquisition—” He snatched up the stabbed book and tossed it onto the table. Its flashy binding took its final breath, spilling pages everywhere. “Take a good look at who actually wrote this thing, Seeker. You of all people should notice when something smells off!”
Cassandra glared at him for a long moment. Then, with obvious skeptism, she picked up the cover to her eye level. Where Varric Tethras ought to have been was not his own concise name, but somehow “Varricus Tethrum”. She lowered the book slowly and inhaled sharply, her jaw tight.
“Come on, dumb name’s far too obvious. And there’s another mail reminder on this book for everyone—early morning mail, a good waking-up call. Are you that excited about the fraud new book of mine to forgot to check your bird? I’m so touched, Seeker.”
The messenger bird let out a soft cry. Cassandra’s face slightly reddened. She took off her mail from the bird and dived into it. After the shame wore off, she sighed heavily. “I shouldn't let my emotions get the better of me. This came from Tevinter?”
Varric shrugged. “Minrathous. Thanks to our new friends, Charter is extremely well-connected among bookstores there.”
“What else do you know? Who’s this editor… C.E.J.?”
“Calvus Elatus Jovius. Former ski-keeper up in the High Reaches. Tevinter aristocrats have been wintering there since the Old Imperium decided snow was fashionable.”
“A ski-keeper,” Cassandra repeated flatly.
“Everyone starts somewhere.”
She ignored that. “The book praises Tevinter. Excessively.”
“Like it’s the last beacon of civilization,” Varric said. “While conveniently blaming every social ill on the elves. Blights, slavery, unrest—apparently all single-handedly caused by pointed ears and their evil origin. And—”
Cassandra’s gauntlet creaked as her hand tightened.
“That rhetoric is deliberate.”
“Of course it is,” Varric replied. “You don’t accidentally write propaganda, you aim it. My guess is one pampered offspring of some magister with too much coin and too little talent, obese ambition and tiny courage to be original. Who doesn't want to get themselves too much publicity but desperately need a certain story to be spread.”
Cassandra began pacing. “Divine Victoria must be informed at once.”
Varric watched her. “You planning to ban it?”
“If necessary.”
He sighed. “And guarantee every bored noble on the northern bank of the Waking Sea smuggles a copy just to see what the Chantry doesn’t want them reading? Seeker, prohibition is the best marketing strategy ever invented. I'm almost ready to suggest you propose a partnership with them before to make fat Royals from this.”
Cassandra’s murderous glare could even have send a chill down their one mutual problematic friend who was apparently somewhere deep in Tevinter inciting revolts and wreaking havoc and disregarding the supposed-merry political atmosphere. But Varric just shrugged.
“This text incites hatred,” she said. “The Divine is trying to push another reform decree to ease tensions in alienages and Lavellan is preparing for a new Dalish meeting. If this spreads—”
“It’ll harden people who already want an excuse,” Varric finished. “Yeah. I know.”
She stopped pacing. “Then you understand why it must be stopped immediately.”
“Stopped?” Varric leaned against the table. “No. Discredited.”
Cassandra frowned.
“You don’t silence a bad story,” he said. “You expose it. Show who’s behind it. A former ski attendant reinvented as literary mastermind. A Magister’s spoiled brat playing revolutionary novelist. Strip the mystique away, and it stops being dangerous.”
“And if that fails?”
“Then it falls to me to write, as I always do.”
Her expression shifted—skeptical, wary.
“You cannot simply counter propaganda with another book.”
“Sure I can.” Varric picked up the tattered book and casually flipped through the remaining pages, smile sharpened. “Difference is, mine won’t blame a people already in deep shit for ages for gravity. And I won’t pretend Tevinter suddenly grew a conscience. And Chuckles,” he scratched his jaw, “I expect him to be more competent and less boring, and I’m afraid that he does have people.” He tilted his head and winked. “And I’m pretty sure that if he were to kill me, he’ll use his nice little ‘your-philosophy-sucks’ petrification glare. These people really lack imagination. Mine will surely sell better.” He let go of the book. “And also with a sturdier spine.”
Cassandra groaned. “You understand we don't have the time for joking, do you not?”
“Joking is never a waste of time, Seeker. Especially in these times.”
“Do you intend to find this…C. E. J.?”
“I intend,” Varric said lightly, “to have a friendly conversation about branding with our friend Calvus.”
“Blackmail?”
Varric beamed. “I prefer ‘networking’.”
Cassandra studied him, then exhaled. “I will inform the Most Holy. Carefully. We cannot appear to be suppressing dissent.”
“Smart,” Varric said. “Do let Leliana keep her hands clean this time. I’ll get mine dirty.”
“You are certain this is not simply the foolishness of one young Magister?”
Varric’s voice lost its humor.
“Seeker, nobody writes a book like this by accident. Not in Minrathous. Not now. Someone wants both humans and elves either angry or afraid. Both are profitable.”
Cassandra’s gaze drifted to the impaled cover again.
“Then we are not only dealing with one novelist and their shady editor.”
“Nope,” Varric said softly. “We’re likely dealing with a new player on the board.”
