Chapter 6 – First Orders
-
Seven chairs had been found, and squeezed into Morgiah’s study. As of yet, four had been filled.
In the first two; a young Breton couple, looking distinctly shy and intimidated. Plain leather satchels hung from their sides.
In the next, Crassius Curio, an arm draped languidly over the back of the chair beside him, in which Nenya was idly readjusting a buckle on one of her boots.
The occupant of the fifth chair was in fact standing, and was closer to the fire, her golden eyes staring hard into the flames. This was not the Suthay-Raht species of Khajiit seen so commonly in this province, but the Ohmes-Raht found more widely in the west. She had come a long way.
Morgiah sat back in her chair. “Thank you all for coming,” she said. “I would like to establish from the start that in coming here, you have agreed to adhere to the strictest discretion. Bar one, you were all recommended to me by the Nerevarine; I hope her trust in you has not been misplaced.”
“I can assure you our mouths are sealed, your majesty,” said Curio smoothly. “Although I believe our company is still two short…?”
“They should be here by now,” Nenya frowned. “I hope nothing’s-”
She broke off as Morgiah suddenly stood up, something odd flashing behind her eyes.
“Come in,” she said.
The company looked at the silent door, nonplussed. Sure enough, it was opened cautiously and two men stepped inside.
The first lifted off his legion helmet respectfully to reveal a tired but honest Cyrodiilic face, with hair cropped short in the military style. “Apologies, your majesty,” he said deferentially.
“There were delays at the gate-check.”
But before Morgiah could answer, a blonde blur of Domina and Indoril careered past and threw itself into the arms of one very surprised Imperial Spymaster.
“Caius!”
It is far from easy to withstand the onslaught of a fully armoured Nord in the prime of her life; however, Caius managed to keep his ground with little more than a stumble.
Though he looked slightly embarrassed by the scene, Morgiah did not fail to notice that he chose not to untangle himself from her embrace.
Partially extricating herself from the confusion of limbs, Nenya looked up at him with cheeks flushed from pleasure. “Hello, you old addict. Did they manage to keep you away from it, then?”
“Cheeky little-” Caius expostulated, pushing her off him and smacking her hard around the head with his gauntlet. Nenya hardly blinked, the blow merely glancing off, an infuriating smile plastered on her face.
“Skulls as thick as rocks, Nords,” Caius muttered. Nenya accepted the insult most peaceably, her smile spreading to an undeniably cocky grin.
She turned to Morgiah, still smirking. “Your majesty, may I present Sergeant Caius Cosades,” she announced, turning to shake hands in greeting with the second man. Caius approached Morgiah and knelt awkwardly to kiss her hand, his chainmail clinking softly.
From across the room, Nenya indicated to the second man. “May I also present Ser Solon Gothren,” she said.
Years and years of protocol and etiquette were the only thing that kept Morgiah standing upright. Her stomach felt as if the bottom had dropped out of it.
Ser Solon Gothren was shockingly beautiful.
It made you dizzy. His beauty was curiously androgynous – the full sensual lips, the high fine cheekbones, smooth grey skin – his eyes were sultry and intense; his hair was dark and soft.
She distrusted him at once. It is always wise to be wary of people who have a power over others, however it may manifest itself. It was also clear that she was not the only one affected.
Every eye in the room, male and female alike, was upon him.
“Welcome,” she heard herself say. He crossed the room, knelt, kissed her hand.
“Thank you,” he replied, his voice low and quiet. He sat in the nearest chair, next to the young Breton woman. She turned bright pink.
The room had become silent. This is ridiculous, thought Morgiah.
“As I was saying, thank you all for coming,” she declared, taking charge once more. “For the benefit of those of you who do not know eachother, I shall make the introductions.”
“Ser Gothren and Sergeant Cosades we have just met. This lady and gentleman,” she indicated the Breton couple, “are Miss Gwynabyth Yeomham and Mr Eadwyrd Greenhart, alchemists from Glenumbra in High Rock. Beside them is Ser Curio, Hlaalu Councillor, Nenya, the Nerevarine, and by the fire is Bomba ’Lurrina, an acquaintance of mine some time ago in Wayrest. Welcome.”
Various figures throughout the room nodded to eachother.
“I have called you here to ask for your help. Recently the Queen Mother and I have become… concerned… about certain residents of the palace, and their affairs. I would like to investigate this, and each of you has unique talents invaluable to this operation.”
Between her fingers wound a silver chain, from which hung a pale green gem.
“I have compiled a list of preliminary orders for each of you, that need to be carried out before things can go further.” She shuffled some paper on the desk. “Miss Yeomham, Mr Greenhart. I have here the coroner’s report from the deaths of King Llethan and his nephew, Talen Vandas. I would like you to study them for similarities to poison-induced fatality, and give me your thoughts on the matter.”
The Breton couple nodded, curiosity clear in their faces.
“Nenya and Bomba ‘Lurrina, I would like you to investigate the recent news concerning our holy Tribunal. Nenya will provide you with the details, Bomba ‘Lurrina. I should start by visiting the Vivec Temple, if I were you.”
Nenya gave the Khajiit a look which distinctly meant that information would be exchanged in private, after the meeting.
Religion always was such a touchy subject, no matter what part of the world you were in.
“Ser Gothren. I am asking you to inquire into my brother’s links with both the Dark Brotherhood and the Cammona Tong. I am not sure where to advise you to start, but I do not think you will need guidance from me in any case.”
Solon turned his gaze on her, but she was ready this time, and remained perfectly composed. He nodded once.
“Finally, Ser Curio and Sergeant Cosades. Your task is less clear-cut. I am aware both of you have many contacts across the province, from aristocracy to criminal organisations. I understand the irregularity of this request, but I would like you to put together a report of every peculiar or inexplicable unresolved event that may have taken place in the last few months. There is a link somewhere, and I am going to find it, no matter how many red herrings we have to wade through.”
It was a moment before she noticed that, to her surprise, Caius and Crassius were surveying eachother with obvious dislike. Nenya was looking between the two, biting her lip crossly.
For a second she considered asking, but decided against it. They were professional men, and this job was more important than any personal dispute they might have.
“Thank you all again,” she repeated, sitting down and arranging her papers. “And now, do not let me detain you.”
And so the meeting was over.
________________________________________
-
________________________________________
"Those guards are looking this way,” Eadwyrd hissed nervously. “I don’t really think we should be here…!”
Gwynabyth muttered under her breath, looking up warily and moving out of sight. “Are they still looking?”
Eadwyrd sighed. “No. Look, we did the report; we know it was poison, uncooked bittergreen. This whole thing is giving me the creeps. We don’t have to be here; what do you expect to find?"
“I don’t know, Eadwyrd,” Gwynabyth said testily, examining the small trade entrance to the palace North Wing. “I just think if she’s paying us this much, we ought to earn it. It took about three minutes to identify those bittergreen symptoms – I just think we should offer something else. The princess said strange robed figures have been getting into the palace this way, and I want to look for clues.”
“I hope she appreciates your dedication,” Eadwyrd muttered. Then his forehead wrinkled in a frown as his eye caught a white glint off the path. “What’s that?”
He stooped down, Gwynabyth beside him, easing the object out from behind the raised flowerbed.
“A square bit of linen,” Gwynabyth said curiously, taking it from him and turning it over. A piece of leaf was stuck to one side – she brought it to her nose cautiously.
“Don’t!” Eadwyrd said suddenly, knocking her hand away. Her eyes widened as she recognised the shape and colour of the leaf.
“Bittergreen… raw bittergreen!”
“Well, at least you’re getting somewhere with your detecting,” Eadwyrd said darkly. “The princess will probably want to know about this.”
“Maybe you’re right, Eadwyrd,” Gwynabyth said softly, staring at the linen. “Maybe this is too big for us. We came here to work on the tonic, not get tangled up in royal politics and murder cases.”
“But we’ve already spent everything we have on ingredients! We need this salary to get back home on… and to finish the tonic. We’ve made such good progress. If it works out we could be court alchemists in Glenumbra!”
“I know.” Gwynabyth sighed. “I just have… a nasty feeling about this. We’re contractually bound now, and I’m not sure what she’ll ask us to do next. She isn’t even our princess, for Mara’s sake! We’re Bretons, we’ve got nothing to do with the Dunmer.”
Eadwyrd hesitated. “She was princess of Wayrest too… they say she left years and years ago, but I heard she only arrived in Mournhold a couple of months ago. Where was she in between?”
“Let’s start walking back,” Gwynabyth muttered, taking his arm and steering him away. “We don’t want to look suspicious.
And as for the princess, I heard she married a High Elf king, but he died. What does it matter? We don’t belong to Morrowind, Summurset Isle or even Wayrest. It just… bothers me.” She bit her lip and they rounded a corner, the gates to Godreach coming into view. “The sooner we finish our work here the better.”
“I do miss Glenumbra,” Eadwyrd admitted. “I miss your cottage and the kitchen-garden.”
Gwynabyth turned and smiled up at him suddenly, her whole face changing. “We’ll be back before you know it,” she declared, her voice animated by the mere mention of home.
It was a second or two before Eadwyrd broke the gaze, looking down at the flagstones, his cheeks going slightly pink.
Gwynabyth, oblivious, began under her breath to softly sing Broken Diamonds, an old Glenumbra song.
The pink in Eadwyrd’s cheeks didn’t fade until they reached their lodgings, nor the occasional sneaked glance at his companion. But Gwynabyth didn’t notice; she never did.
________________________________________
-
________________________________________
It was well that Nenya had retained her key, because there was no question of gaining an invitation into Vivec’s Palace from the Archcanon. Not now. So it was in the early hours of the morning that two figures swam to the southern base of the canton, and made their way level to level towards the top tier.
Despite being one of the most human forms and some years past her prime, Bomba ‘Lurrina was, like any Khajiit, naturally adept in the area of stealth and secrecy, and her form glided smoothly up the walkways that surrounded the palace. The same could not be said of Nenya, who moved with the kind of mow-down flippant efficiency of a sphere centurion.
Bomba ‘Lurrina winced at the clumping of heavy boots on the tier below her. The reconciliation of ‘Nenya’ and ‘Nerevarine’ was so baffling that most people preferred not to think of it.
Finally reaching the pinnacle of the palace structure, the two women edged round to the elaborate front doors, Nenya rustling with painful loudness in her pockets for the key.
Bomba ‘Lurrina was fixed in a kind of mortified awe. There were guards at the bridge to the temple; it was impossible that they couldn’t hear! But there they were, standing with their backs turned, completely oblivious. It had to be Nenya. These things just seemed to work for her. Anyone else would have been caught and thrown into Ministry of Justice before they’d gotten halfway up the side.
The key was located, the door opened. They slipped inside; Nenya pulled off her helmet. Bomba ‘Lurrina had insisted that wearing armour to swim the gap to the palace canton was beyond stupid, but her protests had bounced off like an arrow on a kagouti. And the infuriating thing was, the armour hadn’t made a difference in the end anyway. Laws of physics just seemed to bend around Nenya.
The khajiit sighed and turned her attention to the dais of Vivec.
Her eyes immediately narrowed, and her posture stiffened. She gave a barely audible sniff, her head turning this way and that.
“It looks just like it did before, except there are a few more spiderwebs,” Nenya commented. “I’m not entirely sure what her majesty expected us to find here. Are you alright?” she said, suddenly noticing her companion’s tense posture.
“Husssh,” Bomba ‘Lurrina growled, slowly lowering herself into a crouch. “Don’t move. Don’t move a muscle until I say.”
Nenya froze with a grace quite unexpected of one who’d made enough noise to wake the dead during the ascent up the palace exterior.
Bomba ‘Lurrina crawled silently and very slowly up to the dais, cold and dark without its torches. She circled the rim, her head moving this way and that. Nenya could see her nose twitching sensitively. After a few minutes she stood up and nodded to herself, as if confirming something unspoken.
Nenya unfroze. “You’ve found something.”
“Yes. Something strange, which changes matters, although we should have thought of it sooner. A window into Aetherius has been opened in this room.”
Nenya looked nonplussed. “Really? How can you tell?”
Bomba ‘Lurrina looked at her steadily. “Once you have looked on Aetherius, you do not forget it, or the marks it leaves on the mortal plane.”
Nothing seemed to surprise Nenya. “Oh, I see. You’ve been there?”
“I- Yes,” replied the khajiit, a little frustrated at the lack of shock this information seemed to be causing. “It is the opposite plane to Oblivion; the magic-plane. When you look into the night sky, you are seeing Oblivion. When you look on the day sky, you see Aetherius. Are you familiar with the phenomenon known as the ‘Warp in the West’?”
“Ah. You were involved in that, were you?”
Bomba ‘Lurrina gave up trying to be impressive. “Yes,” she said with less pomp. “It was during that time that I met her majesty, in fact.”
“Well I never. So, you think Vivec left through Aetherius, instead of going out the front door?”
Bomba ‘Lurrina wrinkled her nose. “It seems likely,” she confirmed. “But did he leave… or was he taken?”
Nenya looked thoughtful.
“It is possible that Vivec created the window himself. But if not, I know of only one person with enough control over Aetherius to do such a thing…” Bomba ‘Lurrina stared at the dark dais. “I don’t think the god’s disappearance was the beginning of this,” she said finally. “I think it’s the latest in a chain of events longer than we realise. The mention of Aetherius makes me think of a particular name… and if she’s involved, this has happened for a well-planned reason.”
“‘She’?”
“The one who sent me into Aetherius nineteen years ago.”
Nenya pondered. Then- “Interesting,” she said. “Maybe we should get this information to her majesty as soon as possible.
Seems like it’s quite important.”
“Yes,” said Bomba ‘Lurrina. “It is.”
They left the way they had come, and the guards didn’t hear a thing, despite Nenya dropping her helmet in the water on the way down.
________________________________________
-
________________________________________
The Dark Brotherhood operative held his lookout position by the Old City Entrance with fierce adherence. He was newly promoted; pale, and trembling with zealotry.
His sharp eyes scanned the vast cavern of the abandoned Old Mournhold, built over and forced underground long ago by new generations of buildings. His long fingers, disconcertingly quick and fluttering, travelled constantly inside his sleeves to feel the knives concealed in the cuffs. His mind didn’t even register the action; it was automatic, almost a nervous twitch.
Manos Othrelath, the current Master, was at the moment residing in the partially-ruined house behind his guard-post. He had been in power for almost two years, rising to his station after the suspicious death of the previous Master. The operative was not entirely sure what the cause had been, but he’d heard rumours of a contract made by King Helseth himself going horribly wrong. Since then, security near the main meeting-places had been stepped up – they’d moved to a new location half a mile or so away from the last and stationed more guards; part of the manor district, though the ground was slightly less stable and rivuleted with seams and fissures.
Though he could not see the other guards, the operative knew at least three would be posted round the corners of the respective tunnels leading away from the meeting-house.
He decided the check them, out of conscientiousness. He did this every so often; similar to those fluttering hands that felt for his concealed weapons out of oblivious habit. Moving a few steps away from his post, he peered round the corner of the nearest tunnel.
There was no-one there.
He took a couple more steps, assuming the guard was a little further round the bend. Still nothing.
Frowning, he debated what to do. On the face of things, he was required to stay at his post religiously, and he was loath to disobey orders. But if another guard was absent…
He decided to inform a superior. Turning, he had almost made it back to his watchpoint when a soft click sounded to his right, and an excruciating pain ripped through his throat. He tried to shout, but through the haze of agony he realised in horror there was something protruding from his neck that should not be there, and he was voiceless. The front of his armour was suddenly warm and sticky and wet.
Silently, the operative sank to the floor, and his world went dark.
A figure stepped quietly out from round the corner and approached the body swiftly. Retrieving the crossbow bolt, cleaning and replacing it in his quiver, the figure softly picked up the operative’s corpse and rolled it into one of the many fissures in the ground, where it was at once lost in shadow.
Solon Gothren checked the catches on his crossbow and turned to examine the door of the meeting-house. It looked prone to dramatic creakings. It was also circular, heavy, and very locked.
He knelt near the base of the frame, strands of dark hair falling over his eyes. After moment’s examination of the hinges, he produced a small chisel and with artist’s hands began to ease loose the fastenings. The door shifted a bit with a small grating sound.
Solon whipped round to face the cavern, his eyes scanning the disjointed tunnels, but despite the sound no guards appeared. He turned back to the door, pocketing the chisel and replacing it with a lockpick.
A few seconds later the door swung slowly inward, silent on its loosened hinges. Solon immediately stepped inside, shut it, and melted into the shadows of the hallway beyond. And not a moment too soon, as a Dark Brotherhood assassin turned out of an adjacent corridor, walking the length of the hall and disappearing through a door at the end.
Solon kept perfectly quiet and still, crouched in the darkness, his crossbow precisely balanced. The assassin had been in easy range, but this was not a killing mission. The two guards outside had been necessary, and although he had made use of the chasms to ensure their bodies would not be found, any disappearance would make the Brotherhood suspicious. The key was to get in and get whatever information he needed, without them ever knowing he’d been there. That was the mark of a good stealth artist.
The problem was, all the information he needed for Morgiah was inside a person, and it is impossible to get information out of a person without them knowing you’ve been there.
Impossible…?
Solon thought he had found a way. But it would be risky. The proof, as some said, would be in the pudding.
And what a pudding, he thought. What a pudding.
He began to move, melting through the corridors, skirting the edges and avoiding the torches. Two assassins passed him and failed to notice, but the deeper he got, the harder it would be. He was too far from the main door to rely on a last-minute sprint; however, that was only useful in the event of getting caught. And Solon never got caught.
His various contacts in the underworld meant he had visited a few Dark Brotherhood hideouts, albeit not this particular one. Subsequently, he had some idea of the organisation, and headed up to the back of the building. The Master’s room would not be in the centre: too predictable. It would be on one side. He picked the right and turned a corner, but was almost immediately forced to hide behind a heavily-carven table as an assassin passed by from the opposite corridor, holding an empty tray.
An empty tray… the assassin had been bringing food, and no-one in the Brotherhood hierarchy would be waited on except for Master. He must be close. He turned back to the left, the way the assassin had come, and crept down the hall and round the bend.
He was met by a dead end, in which a door stood ajar. Through the crack he could glimpse a short alcove, and the end of a richly decorated room. The corridor must carry on for a short while behind the door, before opening out into the main chamber-space. This was useful; it gave him a wall to wait behind.
He slipped through the crack and into the creamy glow of the lamp-lit Master Chamber.
Solon could hear someone moving beyond the door-alcove, but it seemed muffled and removed. There was a small writing-table next to the alcove corner; crouching behind it, he peered cautiously into the main room. It was larger than he’d expected, and now he could see why – at the opposite end, another door opened onto a small study, equipped with desk, chair and bookshelf. Sitting at the desk was the Dark Brotherhood Master himself, Manos Othrelath.
Silent as a cat, Solon rose and ventured into the room. Outside the small study-room was another little table, and on it was a goblet of flin, courtesy of the tray-bearing assassin from the corridor. It was almost perfect.
They’d made it so easy for him!
Moving so as to position the study-door between himself and the master in case he turned round, Solon brought a tiny phial out of his sleeve and held it up to the light. It was colourless and thin. Carefully approaching the table, he tipped three drops of the liquid into the goblet, then drew back to the door-alcove to wait.
Solon was unlike other mages in one very important way. He used magic in conjunction with something just as powerful – a study of behaviour. Solon had never heard of the word ‘psychology’, but was nevertheless adept at it in a way no mage would ever think to be. Getting inside people’s heads didn’t just keep you alive. It made you unbeatable. The phial of potion nestling inside his sleeve was, for the moment, the crowning pinnacle of his study.
A few years ago in Solon’s life, something occurred which revealed to him a very interesting fact about sleeptalking: It is impossible to lie. The level of consciousness the brain is in at that particular point of sleep is not aware enough to utilise cognitive devices such as trickery, humour or deception. If you can make the person respond without waking up, they will truthfully answer anything you ask them. The problem is, that’s the hardest bit – keeping them in that exact state of consciousness without a) waking them up or b) letting them drift into a deeper sleep.
This was where the potion came in. A sleeping potion. A very, very fine-tuned sleeping potion, tested and perfected over a number of years into the finished product that was now waiting innocently in the goblet of flin.
At that moment the Master pushed back his chair and came through to the main room, bringing a handful of papers with him. For a moment Solon thought he might come straight for the door, but halfway through the room he turned – yes, he was going for the goblet! Lifting it to his lips, he knocked back the contents in one gulp and set the cup back onto the table.
He made for the door, and then put a hand to his head. He swayed.
And fell.
Like an adder Solon was between him and the floor, catching the semi-conscious man and lying him on the couch. He couldn’t help the spark of jubilation. Like a charm…!
The Master was making murmuring noises. Solon leant down, his nose and inch from the other man. “Hello, Manos,” he said velvetly, careful to keep his tone low and neutral. The potion had worked, but he didn’t want to push it.
“Hello,” mumbled the Master. His eyes were closed, but Solon could see a flickering behind the lids. The level of consciousness seemed to be perfect.
“What are those papers, Manos? A report for his majesty the King?”
“’S,” slurred the Master. Solon’s face was a mask, but deep down in his stomach he was grinning like a wolf. “Intell’gence reports. Spies stationed all through the city, l‘ke he asked. Evr’where covered, even the slums. N’thing we don’t know.”
“And the palace?”
“N’t there. T’ risky.”
So, Morgiah’s meetings seemed to be safe so far.
“What do you know of his majesty’s connections to the Cammona Tong? Have they got spies in the city too?”
Manos frowned in his semi-sleep. “Place’s riddled wi’em. ‘S maj’sty pracly controls th’whole org’nisation. Heard Dren’s gn funny…”
This was news to Solon. “Gone funny? Funny how, Manos?”
“Lu’kin for some mer whu’was at th’ plantation a coupl’a weeks ago. Ub’sessed with him. W’nts to find him.”
Solon’s eyes widened.
He swallowed. “This mer… does he have a name?”
“D’no,” Manos muttered fitfully. “Ganos… Galos, maybe…?”
Solon put a hand to his mouth, quite jolted off-course. He’d hadn’t expected this.
Manos’ increasingly fretful movements brought him back to the present. He didn’t have much time left; deal with the news about Dren later. Concentrate on the job…
“Manos,” he said clearly. “Are there as many Cammona Tong spies working in the city for his majesty as there are Dark Brotherhood?”
“More. Sc’m.”
“Are they in the palace?”
“D’nt think so. Wouldn’t dare, cu’wards.”
“But everywhere else?”
“N’t a single tavern they d’nt have a spy ‘n.”
Solon knew that was almost his lot. He was reaching the limit of the potion, and there was still something else he had to do before the Master woke up. Lifting the unresisting body, Solon placed him back on the floor by the table, as if he’d fainted.
Then, taking a small cloth pad out of a pouch at his waist, he wiped round the inside of the goblet, removing all traces of potion with the last of the flin. The mark of a stealth-artist – no-one had been there.
He slipped out the door like a breath of wind, and was long-gone by the time the Master awoke, groggy, confused and with the half-gone memory of a very strange dream.
________________________________________
-
________________________________________
The study was not the largest of rooms, but the two men in it were sitting as far away from eachother as was humanly possible.
Caius and Crassius were chiefly sorting through letters. They had discreetly sent off as many as possible a few days ago; now they were sifting through the replies. Morgiah had been correct in assuming the amount of contacts between them amounted to most of Morrowind’s aristocratic and underworld population.
Crassius stopped on one sheaf of paper for rather a long time, his eyes scanning the document. “This is interesting, sergeant, very interesting. Apparently black-robed figures have been seen rather numerously around Tel Fyr for the last few months. Ser Fyr himself, however, has not been so forthcoming. No-one’s had a wink of him.”
“We should report that to Morgiah,” Caius said, his voice clipped and formal. “There’s some information about several missing people here as well, including a Tulius Cicero – the name seems familiar, although I can’t quite place it...”
Crassius put the sheaf of paper down and focused all his attention on Caius, a rather devouring grin on his face.
“So, sergeant. Are you enjoying your return to Vvardenfell?”
“Yes, thank you,” Caius said stiffly, determinedly immersing himself in the pile of letters before him.
“Nice to see old friends again…”
“Lovely,” said Caius through gritted teeth, now glaring at the letter in his hand.
“And what a welcome your little Nordic charge gave you! Pleased to see her, were you?”
Caius carried on glaring at the paper, still stubbornly keeping up the pretence of reading.
“Of course she and I, ah, bump into eachother so often, both being prominent members of House Hlaalu. Such a shame you don’t get to see her as much as I do. But then, I suppose you had to sort out your little addiction problem before you were fit to be around Ladies again. Sweet tooth, eh!” Even Crassius’ laugh sounded like a smirk. “Still, decent of her not to hold it against you…”
“Well, decent people tend to do that,” Caius spat before he could help himself, letter crumpling in her hand.
“Oh, she’s certainly decent, I’ll give you that. Take, for example, my conditions on becoming her sponsor for House Hlaalu. She was extremely… generous in the leeway she granted me.” His voice lowered a notch until it was almost conspiratorial. “Generous enough, in fact, to settle most negotiations lip service…”
Caius was on his feet before he knew he’d moved, dagger drawn. He was shaking.
“You took advantage of her. You filthy son of Dagon…”
Crassius seemed utterly unperturbed. “Tastes like honey, speaking of your sweet tooth,” he mused, as if he were commenting on nothing more incriminating than a particularly pleasing flower arrangement. “Must be all that mead Nords drink.”
Caius found it hard to speak; his throat seemed too tight to force the words through. “You’d never have dared try a stunt like that if I’d still been on Vvardenfell,” he rasped. “She – she’d have told me right away – and I’d have been down here before you knew what was happening, I’d have torn you apart – manipulative son of a –”
“Would she, though?” Crassius asked mildly. “I remember her mentioning how brusque you could be at times. Perhaps she didn’t feel she could confide in you at all. Shame, really, considering what she was being put through at the time… torn from her homeland… flung into an Imperial prison… hurtled into the miasmic politics of a strange, unfriendly country… Such a pity you couldn’t have offered some much-needed comfort. Lucky I was on hand to, ah, take care of things.”
Crassius watched the other man’s expression as the meaning dawned on him.
“No,” said Caius, his voice deadly calm.
For the first time, a noticeably unpleasant smirk appeared on Crassius’ face. “So warm, so willing… oh, many a favour she did me, sweet Nenya.”
“Liar.”
“Am I,” Crassius murmured. “Am I.” He was still smiling; now looking at Caius’ hands, balled into fists.
Crassius picked up a stack of documents and walked to the door. As he brushed lightly past, Caius saw himself grabbing him, choking him, smashing his fists into his face over and over again, thrashing and beating and throttling until that smug face was running with blood, nose crushed beyond repair, eyes weeping red tears, teeth splintered, lips split and streaming…
But he stood there quietly and did nothing. Crassius passed unhindered and shut the door quietly behind him.
He couldn’t have resorted to violence. They all needed Crassius and his influence – Morgiah needed him. Caius knew that beneath the mild manner and lecherous comments a formidable intelligence clicked and whirred, running his leading House with faultless efficiency and dispatching his enemies with more cunning and practicality than the whole of Redoran and Tevanni put together.
Caius knew that Crassius Curio was an indispensable political genius. But that didn’t mean he had to like the man.
He sheathed his dagger with unnecessary force and left the room.
________________________________________
-
________________________________________
The bright fire was the only illumination in the room. Two figures sat by the mantle, one drawing slowly on a hookah.
Sweet, luxurious smoke made the ceiling hazy.
“So,” said Morgiah.
Bomba ‘Lurrina looked at her with golden eyes, fingering the skooma pipe almost lovingly. “So,” she echoed.
“He poisoned King Llethan and Talen, I am sure of it,” Morgiah said quietly, looking at Gwynabyth and Eadwyrd’s report in front of her. “And bittergreen traces were found on a piece of scrap linen outside the North Wing trade entrance, where black-robed figures have been sighted in the night. I wish I was more surprised.”
“So do I.”
Morgiah’s glance reminded her that while people may talk ill of their own families, it is a different matter when an outsider does, however close they are in their counsels. Bomba ‘Lurrina looked contrite.
“They are curiously gifted alchemists, the young couple,” she remarked, her tail twitching imperceptibly. “Useful that they happened to be in the city. Are they married?”
“No. They are colleagues, or so the Nerevarine tells me.”
Bomba ‘Lurrina drew on the hookah, her lips in a smirk.
“Curio and Cosades’ compilation is interesting,” Morgiah went on, picking up the second bundle of papers. “Black-robed figures sighted infrequently after dark. Strange goings-on at Tel Fyr. A number of missing people. Surely Divath Fyr wouldn’t be involved with Helseth…? I thought him quite the recluse.”
“Perhaps he isn’t,” said the Khajiit. Her red mane of hair glinted in the firelight. “There are any number of places he could be, other than Tel Fyr. But you would know your countrymen better than I.”
“On the subject of you, I am sure that your discoveries in the palace of Vivec put a certain name in your mind.”
Bomba ‘Lurrina breathed out a mouthful of sweet smoke. “You are thinking the same thing that I am. Nulfaga.”
“It may only be a shot in the dark, but she is the only one I can think of who would be that familiar with Aetherius. You’re right, this goes deeper than we thought.” Morgiah looked thoughtful. “And then, of course, there are Ser Gothren’s findings…”
“Ah, yes!” Bomba ‘Lurrina smiled, an almost predatory expression. “The most beautiful prince of darkness. I wonder how often he uses his extraordinary appearance to his advantage?”
“A great deal, I would think,” said Morgiah, her voice clipped. “Out of all our recruits, it’s him I’m wariest of. There’s no point of contact. I have no idea what he is thinking; I’ve no doubt he’s perfected the art. He’s dangerous. If Nenya hadn’t recommended him, I don’t think I’d have gone near him for any price.”
“But she did… he is obviously out for himself and himself alone, but who isn’t? He’ll find you your answers. Or some, at least.”
“He’s already found a lot. He has confirmed what I have suspected for a long time – Helseth has almost full control over the Cammona Tong, and much influence in the Morrowind sect of the Dark Brotherhood. Remarkable, considering both sides are in bitter feud. Which means we must be even more cautious; spies are everywhere.”
“He didn’t anticipate you,” Bomba ‘Lurrina declared softly.
She watched the thoughts ticking behind the princess’ eyes, but could read nothing into them. Ser Gothren was not the only one who had honed to perfection the art of suppression. Bomba ‘Lurrina had admired Morgiah through the short times she had come into contact with her, but felt much the same about her as the princess felt about Solon. An unknown quantity is a danger.
“You mean Helseth,” Morgiah said calmly.
“Yes. I believe that when he stopped seeing you as a contender for the Wayrest throne, he stopped seeing you altogether.”
This was perilous ground to tread, she knew. Dunmer had a very swift and non-reversible kind of answer to this sort of boldness. But cats are nothing if not curious…
“And when you left to live in Firsthold, you were a blank space in his mind which was taken over by more and more ambition. He didn’t have room for you when you returned; that was why it was such a shock, although he didn’t show it.”
Morgiah was silent. She knew all this. She had come to these conclusions a long time ago.
“Why did you marry King Reman, your majesty?”
Morgiah’s eyes bored into hers. “There are many reasons,” she said.
“Was love one of them?”
“No. I respected him; I did not love him. I did not know him particularly well. I mourned his death as a queen should, but it did not affect me.”
“Then what could the reasons be?”
Morgiah stood, suddenly quite frightening. The fireplace outlined her silhouette. “You push me, Bomba. You know more about these reasons than you let on. Do you think I have forgotten the letter you delivered as your first duty to me, nineteen years ago? I know that you read it, and the reply too. I didn’t expect you not to, but times were desperate and I needed a courier. You know at least one of these reasons.”
“I know at least one of Reman’s,” Bomba ‘Lurrina returned, something of a purr in her throaty voice. “You were the only one who could let him speak to his dead son.”
For a moment, she thought Morgiah would kill her on the spot. Surely she had gone too far.
But Morgiah sat down again, slowly.
“Not the only one,” she said.
“No, of course…” Bomba ‘Lurrina replied softly. “Another king was needed too. And such a strange one… after all, every King comes to Worms in the end…”
The silence in the room was like a tomb. Morgiah was behind the firelight; her face was in shadow.
Then she spoke. Softly. “I know now that Helseth is monitoring magical activity in Mournhold – the place is crawling with spies. It is imperative that he suspects nothing. You made the journey to Scourg Barrow for me once, Bomba. I am asking you to do it again.”
The Khajiit’s eyes widened. Though she had subconsciously expected it, it was still a shock.
“Our normal method of communication will surely not go unnoticed by Helseth, and above all things he must not find out my connections with this place. I have kept this secret too long for it to be discovered now. If there is any magical activity to happen, it must be from M… his end, not mine.”
Something flashed in her fingers. Bomba ‘Lurrina was familiar with the green gem, but it took a moment for her to realise that this was a different one – a blue one.
“I am sure you understand what this is for. Take it to him. Bring Nenya with you; explain to her on the way. It will be a long trip.”
“I know it well,” said Bomba ‘Lurrina ironically.
A ghost of a smile passed over the princess’s face. “I am sorry to summon you here, only to send you back. I know the Dragontail Mountains aren’t the pleasantest of places. I will cover the cost of travel expenses.”
“Thank you.”
When the Khajiit had gone, Morgiah remained in her chair, staring at the fire. The green gem was in her hand, and she held it so tightly her knuckles were white.
On to the next chapter