One Night at Desele’s
Zabarbael, the Molag Mar slave trader, stepped out from the warm confines of the siltstrider into an uncommonly gloomy, intolerably rainy day in the prosperous port city of Suran. He pulled up the hood on his simple brown robe. Though he had grown moderately wealthy renting slaves to wealthy pilgrims, the merchant dressed simply, as befitted a humble and pious temple-goer. He had business in the local slave market, but it could wait for tomorrow. He intended to stay for a few days, as he had grown tired of the sere landscape of Molag Amur.
No, as soon as Zabarbael descended the stair he made for the light of the red lantern, Desele’s House of Earthly Delights.
It had been at least a month since Zabarbael last patronized his favorite tavern; the caravaner’s strike had been most inconvenient, and service was just now returning to normal. But the crowd in Desele’s was undiminished. The Breton in the corner, collapsed with his skooma pipe in hand; the drunken Nord ogling Runa from the front table. Zabarbael felt immediately at home, and why not? The merchant may have made his money in Molag Mar, but he preferred to spend it at Desele’s.
The rains had driven in some unfamiliar faces as well, travelers holing up until a break in the weather. Three young Dunmer sat at a corner table, nearest Marelle, the fine young Breton dancer. Between pulls of greef they would speak into each other’s ears and laugh, as one. Zabarbael concluded that this was their first time in Suran. A pair of Imperials sat at the bar, locked in animated conversation. Their attire was elegant yet conservative. Agents of House Hlaalu perhaps; dealmakers, not nobles.
Finally Zabarbael spotted the right table. Occupied by two fellow merchants, acquaintances from Vivec City, and situated neither too close nor too far from the dancers.
“Zabarbael, friend, take a chair! How’s business? I don’t suppose the strike hurt you too badly?” inquired a middle-aged, somewhat corpulent Dunmer.
“I cannot lodge any great complaint, Tiras. I managed to reduce my stocks before the worst of the strike hit,” the slave trader replied, taking a seat between his friends. “Now that the strike is ended business has rebounded quickly. I’m in need of more slaves.”
“How about those two across the room?” the third Dunmer chimed in. He was younger and dressed more extravagantly than his elders, and a good deal more inebriated.
“Keep your voice down, Foryn! Those lizard-men are free!” Tiras, a tactful fellow, quietly rebuked his friend.
Zabarbael could not help but look across the room, at the Argonians. They stood at the end of bar, exchanging a few quiet words but looking off into space. One he recognized; Hides-His-Eyes, a tracker of some local repute who sometimes met clients at Desele’s. He could not distinguish the other Argonian’s face; he wore a black hood.
The slurred smoky Dunmer voice carried on, “I’m celebrating, Tiras! Come now, I just bought out the most profitable slave market in the Ascadian Isles!” He called across the room, “Ho, lizard-men! My friend needs some cheap labor! Come ‘ere!”
Before either Zabarbael or Tiras could apologize for their friend the hooded Argonian had closed half the distance across the room, knocking over three very confused patrons in the process. A glowing dagger seemed to throb in his grasp.
“No!” Hides-His-Eyes hurried to the hooded Argonian’s side. “Remember your honor. We’ll go back to the tradehouse.”
This did not seem to satisfy the hooded Argonian, for hatred still burned in his eyes, but he sheathed the dagger and started for the door, followed by the tracker.
No sooner had the door shut than Foryn ordered another round of drinks, for himself and his friends. He declared ‘Happy Hour’, and ordered lap dances for every patron in the tavern. It was like nothing ever happened.
-----------------------------------------------
It was late, perhaps 3 AM. No one had left Desele’s. With Foryn buying drinks, there could be no foreseeable end to the party. But Zabarbael was tired; he’d learned it was quite impossible to drink the younger Dunmer under the table. If he left now he might be lucid enough to buy the needed slaves by afternoon.
He stepped out the door. The red lantern cast an oddly powerful glow, it seemed to nearly light up the night. It hurt his alcohol-racked brain. Then, squinting, Zabarbael looked up toward the mountains. The most profitable slave market in the Ascadian Isles was burning to the ground.
