The Contract
An Argonian, dressed in black, walks into the South Wall Cornerclub and eases his way down to the bar. He sits next to an Imperial dressed in a hooded robe.
"Buy you a drink?" asks the Imperial.
"Yes, if worth the price."
The barkeep places a jug of cyrodiilic brandy in front of the Argonian, while the Imperial stands and walks away. After finishing his drink the Argonian follows him outside the cornerclub. Under the shadow of night, the Imperial takes a furtive pull from his skooma pipe.
”Gothren is sending a ‘messenger’ to see Divayth Fyr. Normally we’d just dismiss this sort of thing as Telvanni in-fighting, but the Emperor is concerned.”
The Imperial passes an envelope into the Argonian’s scaly hands.
“The assassin met Gothren earlier this evening. It won’t take him long reach Tel Fyr; you must hurry.”
The Argonian steps off into the night.
---------------------------------------------------
The sun is setting on Azura’s Coast, on the gentle waters of the Inner Sea. A small ship, not much more than a fishing boat, pulls alongside the sandy shore. Three Dunmer are aboard; two wear the rough rags of fishermen, and the taller of these two wears a tri-cornered hat. He likes to think of himself as a pirate, some sort of rogue. And the ladies love his hat. He turns to the third Dunmer, whose form is concealed beneath the plain brown robe of a monk.
“I’m sorry, sera, but I can take you no farther. The waters south of here are full of giant dreugh, and I’ll not risk my catch or my boat to them.”
The third Dunmer lowers his hood, revealing his wizened, scarred visage. “Very well. I thank you.” He passes the captain a modest pouch of gold. He steps off from the vessel, not to shore, but on the water, where he stands. A water-walking spell.
“I shall walk from here.”
He turns and walks south, over the infuriated slaughterfish and perplexed dreugh. It is good to be here on the coast, he’s thinking. I’ve had too many town jobs of late, relieving the petty jealousies of minor nobles, ignoble work for insufficient coin. But now Gothren was paying well; he must feel oddly threatened. Since Fyr had returned from Artaeum, the Archmagister knew he was no longer the most powerful mage in the Telvanni district.
He did not care for Gothren, or any of his clients for that matter, but he appreciated a job well-done. It irritated him that no boat offered passage to Tel Fyr overnight, and only that slow, pathetic skiff dared to navigate the shallow, rock-riddled waters during the day. He wanted to get the deed done immediately; clients like that, pay extra for it, even if it makes no practical difference. But he wouldn’t dare to water-walk all the way from Tel Aruhn; he wants to be fresh when he sneaks into the Tower of Tel Fyr. He knows enough about the wizard to be a little fearful. He will take Divayth Fyr in his sleep.
The sun is nearly gone. The veteran assassin scrambles onto a small prominence jutting out of the sea. Tel Fyr. The dying sun casts a soft amber glow onto the tower’s west side, while the east is cast into shadow, the friendly shadow from which he’ll approach the front door. The entire assassination is set in his mind, as if he had already done the deed. He can see it all: the spell of silence cast upon each door, the furtive climb up the tower shaft, the blade of his dagger drawn across Divayth Fyr’s throat, and the spell of recall that will spirit him away unseen, without a trace. Fyr’s wives won’t discover the body until morning.
Suspicion and blame will be cast about, threats made, more assassins hired. That’s all these political vendettas really are, he thinks; work programs for assassins.
He eases down from the pillar of stone, and slips down into the water. That’s funny, he thinks, I don’t recall dispelling that water-walking spell. He starts to recast the spell, then pauses. He doesn’t resurface.
I like your way with detail.