Strictly Business: A Tale of the Fourth Era
Dear Brother,
May the light of the moons illuminate your path, and Ruptga Tall-Papa beat the snakes away with his big stick.
It warms my heart every time I see your writing on a letter. All is well in Sentinel, though the storms off of the Alik'r have quite ruined the warm summer nights, and I found a black beetle on the statue of Father, a wicked omen to be sure. I hope that your time in Wayrest has been eventful only in the good ways, and that you will soon be returned to us. My eldest has been all a-flutter about the newest style from Hegathe, which apparently is a brilliant deconstruction of the Altmers' insane predilection with physical perfection. You simply must see it. I could write for weeks on end, but the night is young, and there is a widow in the Crown District who has offered to show me her collection of Dwemer tapestries, and it would be shame to keep her waiting.
Your loving brother always.
"So what's the problem?"
"I'm an only child, and both my parents live in Bergama."
"Huh. That means new orders?"
"From our benefactor, no doubt. Thirty drakes says he wants them sooner than expected. Fetch the cyphers, we need to decode this."
"This is going to mean trouble."
"When does it not? If the schedule's been accelerated, we'll need a team."
"I'll start making inquiries."
"Quietly, for Satak's sake."
Chapter 1: A Lazy Wayrest Evening
Geon's was a good place to drink, especially if you were an Orc. Durag was on his sixth beer, and nobody had started any shit yet. Just the way he liked it.
He'd been coming here for nearly a decade, and both the old man and his daughter knew he was good for the money. Mercenary work was always steady for an Orc in Wayrest, especially an Orc like Durag. When Geon needed some lowlife dunked in the Bjoulsae River or a supplier was getting cagey with the booze, Durag was happy to help. Everything ran smoothly enough, and half-priced drinks meant Durag could always be found in his spot at the end of the bar, right under the big sand lion skull from Geon's time in Hammerfell. If someone started trouble, having an Orc on hand meant everything calmed down real quick. Otherwise, they got to find out exactly how many times their head could bump against the ground on their way down to the Bjoulsae.
By the time Durag got to his eighth mug of the cheap beer, he was starting to feel it. He was too heavy to ride the little horses they bred here and had been drinking seriously for years, but from time to time he had a light-weight night. Some food might help. He signaled one of Geon's daughters, and the big woman trundled over to him.
"What's happening, hun?" Geon said Besselda took after her mother, which made Durag wish he'd met the woman. She was red in hair and face, always smiling, and had the kind of voice that went through your head like a shark-toothed saw.
"What's roasting in the back?" Geon usually had something good and greasy on the big spits.
She sniffed. "You can't smell it? We got some wild boar down from the hills. Cheap, on account of there was a stampede and some sorcerer set the whole damn herd on fire." She winked. "Tell you what, hun. I'll get you a plate free, since you're so cute and all."
Durag's nose hadn't worked much since he'd gotten a faceful of fire while brawling a mage. "Only to you." With a snort, he took another gulp of his beer as Besselda rumbled away. The stuff was crap, but half-price off the swill meant he could drink all night and still have a purse full enough that he got to fight off the footpads on the way home. And really, wasn't that what life was all about?
Tatter-ways scuttled through the warehouse like some sort of, well, lizard, which Branwen supposed she was. The Argonian might claim no kinship to the little scuttlers that had plagued Branwen's childhood, but she sure moved like them. Right now, though, that was good. It meant that they might actually get away with this.
Branwen drew the dagger from its sheath. It had been a gift from one of the Cumberland factors, the kind of gift that the man probably hadn't even noticed he had given her until hours later when he went to take off his clothes. It was good steel and very sharp. She had never used it against someone else, but she was pretty sure she could if she needed to. Right now, though, all she was slicing was sailcloth, albeit sailcloth wrapped around a treasure that might just make them both rich.
Branwen brought the magelight close. It had been a gift from one of the thousands of apprentice wizards that littered Wayrest trying for glory. It gave off a soft light when pressed just right, and was perfect for nighttime reading, among other things. The cloth was marked with the sigil of the Bashaka, merchants from Sentinel. She'd didn't usually go after fellow Redguards, but sometimes you had to take a chance to make it big.
With the quietest of slithers, the layers of wrapping fell away. Tatter-ways was halfway to the roof, leaping from perches and winding long fingers and toes into cracks as though she were part Khajiit. Branwen didn't know how Argonians worked, exactly, but she was pretty sure that wasn't possible. Still Tatters was always good to have along. She didn't talk much, she could breathe underwater, and she had once led ten Gardner mercenaries on a chase through the Docks for nearly an hour while Branwen and some acquaintances had lifted a few choice items from an incoming shipment.
Inside the cloth lay…a box, banded with metal and locked up tight with three keyholes. Maybe it could be called a chest, but either way it presented a problem. It was small but heavy, made of some dark wood. Branwen could stow it under an arm and be away, but that was exactly the sort of mistake that she didn't want to make. In Wayrest, a good thief knew that what you didn't steal was just as important as what you did. Walk away with some coin or a brace of knives, no harm and no foul. Jewelry was fair game too, though if it had a name on it, most fences wouldn't pay any more than the weight of the parts. A box like this, though, it could contain anything. And if she somehow wound up carrying off a manifest or a contract or, gods forbid, a treaty, well those were the sorts of mistakes that ended with bodies in the Bjoulsae.
A hiss from behind, and Tatters was at her side. "Watchman coming back early. You have it?"
"Box is locked. Don't know what's inside." She showed the Argonian, who hissed again.
"Bad. Three locks means three keys, and that means three people who don't trust each other. Take it and there'll be blood in the streets. Maybe ours, maybe our friends." She looked up at the window. "Maybe that watchman." One thing Branwen liked about Tatter-ways, the lizard didn't throw life away. Too many people in their line of work were callous, and thought a mark's blood was a decent way to get at their purse.
Branwen cursed. "Ka'va Sep! Let's go, Tatters." By the time the watchman opened the door and shoved his lantern into the room, they had slipped through the open window, carefully closing it behind them so the broken latch couldn't be noticed from the street.
Tatters had managed to swipe a few rolls of cloth and Branwen had lifted a foot-long bronze idol of four-armed Mother Morwha. Old Kuenu would take the lot off their hands for a few septims, no doubt. They wouldn't starve yet, but it hadn't been a very successful night. With a sigh, Branwen set off after Tatter-ways. She'd get by. She always did.
Barnand took a deep breath. This is it, no turning back now. The gaudy paint over the doorway advertised the establishment as Bera's, and the sounds coming from inside made him wonder if it really was too late to reconsider. No, this is where I choose. Mediocrity or greatness. Obscurity or glory!
He pushed the door open, and nearly gagged at the stench. The air was smoky, and everywhere voices were raised. A lanky Dunmer festooned in silks and jewelry lay sprawled on a couch by one of the windows, breathing deeply from a jar containing what was undoubtedly a narcotic incense. Another of the dark-skinned elves, ordinarily rare in this part of the world, was engaged in a lazy argument with a pair of Bretons, all three slumped on deep-seated cushions and wearing the heavy silver chains of the Alchemist's Guild. An entire group of Orcs sat hunched around a low table; Barnand didn't even want to begin to guess what business they were up to. His eyes passed over a dozen more outlandish patrons, each numbing themselves with the services this place offered.
Finally, he saw the patron. The mysterious figure sat at a small table in the corner, every inch of him—or her, Barnand supposed—hidden from view. The patron waved a gloved hand, and Barnand reluctantly made his way over and sat down across from the other.
"Nice place you picked."
The patron did not acknowledge his attempt at humor. The mask that presumably hid its face merely regarded him for a second before waving again. Barnard twisted to see who the new arrival was, and his jaw nearly hit the floor.
She was gorgeous. Altmer, meaning tall and slim, and with silver hair, she moved through the smoke like she was dancing. Her robes flattered her, and as her face swam into view—
Of all the blasted luck. It was Taaniel. She stopped dead when she saw him, and her features assumed the sneer he had come to know so well. "If I had known the farmhand would be joining us, I would have brought a pig so he would feel at home."
"And if I'd known you'd be here, I'd have brought a cushion for that stick up your ass." Unoriginal, and far from his best, but Taaniel had always had that effect on him. She had been a constant irritant for two years now, ever since he had arrived at the Halls of Thaumaturgy. To be fair, he might have had a spot of manure on his boots, but that was only because he had ridden along on his father's cart, bringing some goods to market. He had set off bravely though, determined to make his name and prove his worth to all of those stuck-up merchant families and the like, showing that he could accomplish every bit as much as they.
Unfortunately, there were costs associated with learning at the Halls, and he had yet to perform a feat impressive enough to draw the attention—and hopefully sponsorship—of an established mage. The scions of powerful or wealthy families were set, of course, their parents' gifts or names ensuring that they would never lack for support no matter how mediocre their abilities. For those like him, however, that left either selling his skills for the coin needed or finding some less savory way of procuring funds. Aspiring mages were thirty for a septim in Wayrest, so when a figure like this mysterious patron offered a year's funding in exchange for a job, he came to the meeting. Even if she was here too.
Taaniel's family had supposedly fled the Summerset Isles when the Thalmor took control, leaving everything to come to the Empire. Barnand didn't much care about that, all that mattered was that the High Elf had taken an immediate dislike to him, and every time they met, she was sure to denigrate him in some way. He didn't know what her problem was, but he had learned on the farm that keeping your head down didn't solve anything, so he had started giving as good as he got. Most of the time. If she was here, though…
"Both of you need me, and I need the two of you to work together." The patron's voice was deep, but it was also clearly distorted by magic. Behind that mask and under the robes could be anybody. Or anything. "If you are unable to do so, feel free to leave now." Neither moved. Barnand gave Taaniel a questioning look, and received a haughty one in return.
I hate Altmer. That wasn't true. I hate Taaniel. That was. He looked back at the patron. "I'm in." Taaniel too responded in the affirmative, and the patron nodded.
"Good. Listen well, for I shall only say this once…"
For anyone coming here after reading Dragon from Ash, this is a companion piece, albeit one with almost no overlap with DfA as it currently stands. There is no previous knowledge needed, and this should function perfectly well as a stand-alone story.