Into the Light, Part 1: In the Company of Thieves
Chapter 1
[Author's Note: Welcome to the fourth installation of my "Into the…" saga with Marcus of Whiterun, called "Dragonborn," and his wife, Arch-Mage Tamsyn. The overarching title for this work is "Into the Light," suggested by Dragonrdr135, but the first part of this is set during the time between "Into the Darkness," and "Into the Ashes." The events related here have a bearing on the story as a whole, and is why I have decided to divide the work into Part 1 and Part 2. Part 1, as you can see, is "In the Company of Thieves." Disclaimer: all canon events, characters and settings belong to Bethesda. I own nothing but a few original characters, plotlines and backstories. Please read and review. Thank you! ~~Aurora Nova.]
10th Rain's Hand, 4E 204
"You wanted to see me, Your Majesty?" Lance de Fer asked, bowing as he entered the presence of the Emperor of Tamriel.
"Yes, Councilor," the old monarch beamed, waving him in. "Come in, come in! I have something I wish to discuss with you. And close the door behind you, please."
Lance did as he was bid and approached the ornately gilded and carved wooden desk behind which was seated the most powerful man in all the Empire. His feet made barely a sound, muffled by thick, expensive woolen carpets from Hammerfell. The bright colors of their intricate designs were muted by the sunlight streaming in through panes of stained glass in the large, circular room. It was the top-most chamber in the White Gold Tower, and though he had been here a handful of times already, it never ceased to impress the young antiquities dealer, who had so recently become a trusted advisor to the Emperor himself.
Only because I uncovered a plot to assassinate him, Lance thought privately. Thank the gods Cicero was able to get to Amaund Motierre in time!
Lance de Fer was his alter-ego. In reality, he was Dante Greyshadow, leader of the Cyrodiil Thieves' Guild, known to some as the Grey Fox. Fortunately, it was not known to Titus Mede the Second, or Motierre would not have been the only casualty that day. All the elder monarch knew was that a young Breton shopkeeper had stumbled onto a plot against his life and had taken it upon himself to warn and protect his Emperor from one of his own courtiers, Amaund Motierre, who had decided he had waited long enough for the Ruby Throne to become vacant.
Cicero was the Keeper, one of the last members of an unsavory association of assassins known as the Dark Brotherhood. Motierre had attempted contacting the Brotherhood to carry out his request to murder the Emperor, but he had not known that the hero known as the Dragonborn had already decimated the organization, and they in effect no longer existed. Cicero had escaped the purge by virtue of not being in the Sanctuary when the Dragonborn "cleaned house," and in an ironic twist of fate, had somehow found himself linked to the champion through a connection with the Arch-Mage of the College of Winterhold, who was married to the Dragonborn. That connection, Dante admitted privately to himself, still escaped his comprehension.
In any event, Cicero owed him a favor for his aid in assisting the Arch-Mage in escaping from the Thalmor, and the unstable little Imperial had returned the favor by hovering near Motierre during Lance de Fer's presentation of the evidence against him. As expected, Motierre panicked and made a desperate attempt to murder the Emperor in cold blood in front of the entire court. Cicero had gotten to him first, slipping a contact poison into Motierre's robes where his dagger lay hidden. It was an extremely virulent poison. Motierre convulsed and collapsed before he had gone three steps, and the damning documents proved the case against him. Cicero slipped away into the crowd during the ensuing confusion, to be rewarded later by the Grey Fox for his assistance. Dante believed in being fair, even as Cicero had protested he was only paying a debt. He still pocketed the money, however. Dante wasn't surprised.
So here he was, standing in front of the man whose life he had saved, dressed in finer clothing than a modest dealer in antiquities could hope to afford, waiting for his liege to speak. He looked around the richly appointed room and felt the familiar itching in his fingers.
So much good stuff in here! he thought with a private smirk. But now was not the time for his avarice to rear her beautiful head. There would be time enough for that later, if his plans came to fruition. He waited patiently for his Emperor to speak, studying him as he did so.
Tall, but bent now with age, Titus Mede the Second must once have been an imposing figure. Behind him, on the wall, hung a portrait of him, painted when he was a much younger man. In full military regalia, the dark-haired Imperial glared out at the world with a disdainful look in his eyes, as if posing for his portrait was an imposition upon his valuable time. The artist had captured that look with brilliant clarity. Dante compared it to the figure seated before him now, a balding, feeble man of advanced years, with parchment-thin skin stretched over a frame bent with infirmity. Liver spots dotted his hands and face. The only thing that had not changed over the years were his eyes; pale grey, and slightly rheumy, they still peered out at the world with the distaste of someone who has accidentally stepped in something they could not scrape off their boot. Those eyes were scrutinizing him closely at the moment, and Dante forced himself to focus.
"How long have you been in Cyrodiil, Councilor de Fer?" the Emperor asked suddenly.
Dante thought back quickly. "About a dozen years, Your Majesty," he replied. "Give or take a couple."
"And you've been dealing in rare artifacts all this time?"
Without missing a beat, Dante nodded. "Yes, Your Majesty," he answered. "I became interested in antiques at an early age as a boy in High Rock. When I grew older I decided Cyrodiil would be a much better place to set up shop. Many adventurers come through here, bringing the treasures they find with them." There was no way he would admit his real reason for leaving High Rock. "Might I inquire the reason for Your Majesty's curiosity?" he added carefully.
The Emperor said nothing for a long moment, before shrugging. "I thought you reminded me of someone I once knew," he said. "It doesn't matter. That was a long time ago, and the past is nothing more than dead ashes." He brooded several heartbeats before shaking off his melancholy. "That is not the reason I asked you here, however," he continued briskly. "I wanted to ask your opinion about something. I am considering adopting the Dragonborn, if he is amenable. I have no living heir, you see."
Dante felt his heart lurch. The Dragonborn? Dammitall!
The Ruby Throne was the position he had coveted for himself. His reasons for saving the Emperor's life from Motierre had not been entirely altruistic. It would not do, however, to let Titus Mede know that.
"The Dragonborn?" he said aloud, hand to his chin, stroking his goatee, as if considering the matter. "It would certainly make sense, Your Majesty," he admitted. "The Dragonborn were, after all, rulers of the Empire before the last Septim sacrificed himself during the Oblivion Crisis."
"Yes, I know," Titus Mede said smugly. "What better way to ensure the security of the realm after I'm gone, than by attaching that name to mine through adoption?"
Dante nodded, but felt obliged to remind his liege of the obvious. "As I recall, however, the current Dragonborn is not a Septim."
"That we know of," the Emperor pointed out. "In point of fact we know very little about this 'Marcus Dragonborn' other than that he is an Imperial. We know what he has accomplished in the last few years, since the return of Alduin, the World-Eater, but beyond that there is nothing."
"Would it not be wiser, then, Your Majesty," Dante ventured carefully, "to choose someone with whom you are better acquainted? Someone you know almost as well as you know yourself?"
"There aren't many of those left, Councilor de Fer," Titus Mede snorted. "I've just about out-lived everyone I knew when I first became Emperor."
"There's General Tullius," Dante suggested. "He has been loyal to you throughout the years."
The Emperor shook his head. "Tullius is a military man," he dismissed. "He's a brilliant strategist, but a terrible diplomat. And I have had to dance my way around the Dominion for years, now, keeping them from taking advantage of our weaknesses. Besides, until that Civil War nonsense in Skyrim is settled, I need him there as Military Governor of the Province."
With effort, Titus Mede hauled himself to his feet and, after pausing a moment to get his balance, walked slowly and unsteadily over to the window. He stared out at the vista below; the Imperial City spread out like a fractured jewel in a tarnished setting.
"I need someone who is a proven diplomat," he continued, "but who also has experience on the field of battle. I need someone the people will accept as one of their own, even if his past remains a mystery. I need the Dragonborn."
"He may not come, Your Majesty," Dante cautioned. "He has a wife and family, firmly rooted in Skyrim. His wife is the Arch-Mage of the College at Winterhold; she certainly would take a great deal of persuasion to pack up everything to come down here to Cyrodiil." Dante knew from personal experience how stubborn the Arch-Mage could be. At least she still owed him a favor; she had promised to help him retrieve Mehrunes' Razor. It had been a few months since that promise was made, however, and too much had happened since then. He was certain she hadn't forgotten, but it might be time to call in that favor. He doubted very much that she would view uprooting herself and her family to Cyrodiil as a viable option of repaying the debt she owed to him for helping to save her life. Still, it wouldn't hurt to ask.
"Then I will have to send someone to speak with him," Titus Mede conceded. "I'm not going to make this an order, Councilor," he continued. "I could, but I won't. One does not make demands of a hero the stature of the Dragonborn. I'll draft a letter this evening for you to take to him."
Dante blinked twice. "Me?" he blurted, his eyes widening. Quickly he recovered his composure. "Forgive me, Your Majesty, but you want me to deliver this letter? Why not just send it through the usual diplomatic channels?"
The Emperor glared at him. "You know as well as I know that the Dominion has spies everywhere, de Fer," he said scornfully. "The last thing I want to do is to put them on notice that I'm considering remedying a shortcoming that has been overlooked for too long." He sighed. "This would not have been necessary if…" He let his voice trail off, before saying firmly. "I want this letter delivered directly to the Dragonborn, de Fer, understand? You're the only one I can trust with this mission."
"I understand, Your Majesty," Dante replied, bowing. Inwardly, his mind was whirling.
"Good," the Emperor nodded. "I'll need some time to write this, and then I want you on the next carriage to Skyrim. Dismissed."
Dante bowed and backed his way out of the room.
The Dragonborn! he thought wildly. Of all the people in Tamriel he could have chosen, why him? And why now?
Had it been anyone else, he might have found ways to either discredit the person, persuade Titus Mede they were a bad choice, or find some way to persuade the candidate that it might be healthier for them to move to another Province…or preferably another continent. But this was the Dragonborn, for Nocturnal's sake!
Personally, Dante knew as much about him as the Emperor did, or perhaps a little more. He had not been idle, these past few months since aiding the Arch-Mage and effecting her escape from the Thalmor. (The fallout from that alone had been perversely satisfying to watch from his position as an outside observer.) Finding out information about the Arch-Mage and her husband, however, had been about as frustrating as looking for gold in a copper mine. Prior to the last three years, it seemed they simple hadn't existed. All that was truly known was that both had survived the destruction of Helgen, a small town in Falkreath Hold in Skyrim. Before that, it was a blank slate.
At least he had had some direct contact with the Arch-Mage. He admired and respected her uncanny knowledge and insight regarding the ultimate design of the Aldmeri Dominion: to annihilate any and all non-Altmer races, in a misguided belief that doing so would help them regain their so-called 'lost divinity.' The Altmer believed, erroneously, that they were not simply created by the Aedra, but were in fact descended from them. Furthermore, in order for them to restore their status as gods, they intended to eradicate every race that spawned following the creation of Mundus, when the Aedra were duped by Lorkhan into giving up a part of themselves to bring the world and everything in it into being. In short, they intended to 'erase the mistakes that were made.'
Well, this 'mistake' has every intention of preventing that from happening, he thought resolutely. If Tamsyn and her husband intended to take the fight to the Dominion, he, Dante Greyshadow, would call upon his considerable resources to aid and abet them. But that didn't mean he wanted the Dragonborn to become the next Emperor. Dante scowled to himself. There's got to be a way I can stop this.
But first, of course, he would have to go and meet the man.
Marcus of Whiterun, called 'Dragonborn', scowled at his lovely wife.
"I don't know about this," he growled, clearly unhappy. "I mean, what do you actually know about the man?"
"Not much," Tamsyn admitted, "other than the fact that he's a Nightingale, like Brynjolf, and has taken over the mantel of the Grey Fox in Cyrodiil."
Marcus frowned. "I don't know what that means," he said. "Who or what is the 'Grey Fox'?"
Tamsyn waddled over to the nearest chair and settled herself heavily, shifting until she was comfortable. Marcus grabbed a nearby pillow and put it behind her back. She smiled at him gratefully. Seven months' along in her first pregnancy – at least, in this life – she felt as awkward as a mammoth at a tea party, and just as graceful. The letter from the Guildmaster in Cyrodiil couldn't have come at a worse time.
Well, to be fair, it could have, she thought. I could have been in labor!
She turned to her husband now, who had settled himself across from her in the other chair flanking the fireplace in their private chambers at Heljarchen.
"The Grey Fox," she explained in a low voice, after looking around to make sure neither Lydia nor Gregor was nearby, "was a character from another game, called 'Oblivion,' set in the same world as Skyrim and created by the same company. In that game, which was set, ironically enough, during the Oblivion Crisis, he was the leader of the Cyrodiil Thieves' Guild. As the player character, you help him with several jobs, which all lead to him removing the curse that Nocturnal put upon her Cowl, that had been stolen from her centuries before by a clever thief."
"How was it cursed?" Marcus wondered.
"While he wore the Cowl," Tamsyn replied, "no one would know who the Grey Fox was, neither by race, gender or identity. He was simply 'the Grey Fox.' Even his own wife assumed he was dead and ignored him whenever he came near her. It was as though for her, he simply didn't exist. He wanted to go back to her but needed help in removing that curse."
"Alright," Marcus allowed. "But you said that happened two hundred years ago. Clearly, he failed, if he's still around today."
Tamsyn chuckled and shook her hair, the lock of white hair at one side of her coppery head gleaming in the firelight. "No, clearly he succeeded," Tamsyn said. "Because the man I met was a Breton, and they don't live that long. I'm going to go out on a limb and assume it was the Savior of Bruma, the Hero of Kvatch, who helped him remove the curse. Furthermore, I'm going to guess that even though the curse on the Cowl was broken, it was still handed down as a sort of badge of office within their organization."
Marcus considered this. "It means we still don't know very much about the man," he frowned.
"No," Tamsyn admitted, "but so far he's kept his promise to me to funnel information about Dominion activities our way, and he's given me spells and magical artifacts the Thalmor wanted hidden away from the rest of the world."
"True," Marcus nodded. He sighed, glancing again at the letter he still held in his hand. "Well, you certainly can't go running around Akatosh's little green acre," he pointed out. He held up a hand when she would have protested. "It's one thing for you to head to Winterhold or Solitude, or even Blackreach," he continued. "But you don't even know where this Mehrunes' Razor is." He shot her a keen look. "Oh wait…you do know, don't you?"
Tamsyn giggled. "I do," she said smugly, "but in point of fact, I agree with you. I shouldn't be traipsing all over Skyrim finding the pieces and putting myself and our baby in danger. That's why I think you should go with him."
Marcus groaned. "I knew you were going to suggest that!"
The carriage arrived at Whiterun before the gates closed for the night. Dante claimed his travel bag and presented his badge of office to the guard, Baldur, who allowed him to pass through.
"How do I get to the Pale from here?" he asked Baldur.
"Depends," the Nord guard replied. "If you're headed to Dawnstar, you can take the carriage. Any place else, and you may have to walk, unless Jervar has a horse you can buy."
"Buy?" Dante blinked. "Can't I just rent one?"
Baldur laughed. "This isn't Cyrodiil, Councilor," the blonde Nord grinned. "You're out in the wilds of the north now. If you want a horse, you'll have to buy one, or walk. Where are you headed?"
"A place called 'Heljarchen'," Dante said sourly, butchering the name. He hadn't counted on having to walk!
"Ah, the Dragonborn's place!" Baldur smiled now, in genuine camaraderie. "I'm afraid you'll have to walk there, too," he continued. "But it's really not all that far. Maybe a half a day north, just past the Loreius farm, which is just past Whitewatch Tower. The road east of here, that follows along the White River for a way, runs right past the Loreius farm. Heljarchen—" he pronounced it 'Hel-yar-ken', "—is just north of that, across the border in the Pale."
"Thanks," Dante replied, then asked, "Where can a man get a good night's rest and a drink?"
Baldur grinned again. "The Bannered Mare is the best place," he advised. "Straight up the road here, at the far end of the market square. You can't miss it."
Dante thanked him again and headed into town. He hadn't gone far when a Redguard stopped him.
"You there," the man called. Dante stopped and turned. The man was dressed as an Alik'r warrior, with soft boots for walking on sand, loose-fitting trousers and a comfortable shirt under a hardened leather cuirass. A cloth was wrapped and bound around his head; in the desert, it would have kept the sun from boiling his brains away. A wide belt straddled his hips, from which hung a very wicked-looking scimitar.
"Can I…help you?" Dante drawled. It was late, he was tired, and he really didn't want to stop, but he hadn't risen as high as he had in his organization by ignoring potential allies. It was well known that the Redguards of Hammerfell had no love for the Aldmeri Dominion. They had fought them to a stand-still twenty years or so previous, but it had left them weakened. He was curious to know what two Redguard Alik'r warriors were doing in Skyrim.
"We are looking for someone in Whiterun, and will pay good money for information," said one of the warriors, who was apparently the spokesman for the duo.
"Oh?" Dante perked up his ears. Where money was involved, a profit could be made. "Just who are you looking for?"
"A woman," the Alik'r said. "A foreigner in these lands. Redguard, like us. She is likely not using her true name. We will pay for any information regarding her location." He shot a glance at the guard, Baldur, who was hovering nearby, glaring at them. "We are not welcome here in Whiterun, so we will be in Rorikstead if you learn anything."
Dante considered this. "May I ask why you're looking for her?" he inquired. The last thing he wanted was to get embroiled in some petty kidnapping ring, or slave trade, which the Alik'r were famous for.
"It's none of your concern," the Redguard told him severely. "All you need to know is that we're paying for information. If that doesn't interest you, feel free to walk away."
His attitude rubbed Dante the wrong way, and he gave a mocking bow. "This is me," he jeered, "walking away."
He turned and headed up the street to the Bannered Mare. Inside it was a busy night. Many of the citizens of Whiterun had come in for a drink, a song, and to relax after their long day of trying to make a living.
Dante sat down at the nearest table with his back to the wall, in clear view of most of the room.
"Saadia, dear, wake up!" the innkeeper called.
"Yes, mum!" a woman's voice replied, and shortly after, a Redguard beauty with deep blue eyes and hair like midnight stepped up to his table.
My night just got a little better, Dante smiled to himself. He ordered some food and a drink, and asked for a room for the night.
"You'll have to speak with Hulda about the room, handsome," the wench replied, "but I think we have a place for you. If not, I'll see what I can do." She swept her eyes appreciatively over his form and hurried off to fill his order.
Dante grinned and went over to the bar to speak to Hulda.
"A room for the night?" she echoed. "Of course. That will be ten septims, please." She pocketed the coins he handed her and said, "I'll show you to your room, if you like."
"Not right now," Dante replied, shaking his head. "I just ordered food."
"Oh, that's fine, then," Hulda smiled. "It's at the top of the stairs, there, first door on the right."
Dante returned to his table and listened to the bard crooning and strumming old favorites to the townsfolk while he waited for his food. When Saadia arrived with his meal, he thanked her, appreciating the sensuous sway of her hips as she returned to the kitchen.
He wondered briefly if she knew about the Alik'r mercenaries at the front gate, then wondered why he cared. It really was none of his business, as the Redguard had said, but it was the man's attitude that rankled him. Diplomacy, clearly, was not a Redguard strong suit.
Saadia returned a short while later to clear away the trenchers. She smiled warmly at Dante, and he felt she might find as much amusement in the Alik'r merc's attitude as he had.
"Do you get much time off, Saadia?" he asked. "We could go outside for a walk when you're done here."
"Oh, no," she demurred. "Thank you, but I tend to stay in a lot, even when I'm not working. I guess I'm don't enjoy being outside that much."
"You must have spent some time outdoors as a girl in Hammerfell, though?" he asked.
Saadia shook her head as she scrubbed the table. "I haven't been in Hammerfell for some years," she replied. "I…tended to move around a lot."
"I suppose you don't get to see many of your people in Skyrim, then," he nodded, commiserating. "Did you see those Alik'r mercenaries at the front gate?"
Crockery crashed to the floor and the entire room went silent.
"Oh, Saadia," Hulda cried wearily. "Clean that mess up!"
Several patrons broke out into laughter, and the music and conversations started up once more.
"At once, mum!" the Redguard woman muttered, gathering up the broken pieces in her apron.
"I'm sorry," Dante apologized. "Did I say something wrong?"
"The Alik'r have found me!" she whispered, fear in her liquid blue eyes. "They're here!"
Things clicked into place. "Is there something I can help you with?" he asked.
"Not here!" Saadia pleaded. "Come to my room, later tonight. Take the kitchen stairs, then the first room on the right. Please, you must help me!"
"Alright," Dante promised quietly, his curiosity – among other things – thoroughly aroused. "I'll come up later, after things quiet down here."
Throwing him a grateful look, Saadia gathered up the last of the broken dishes and fled to the kitchen. He didn't see her the rest of the evening.
He waited in his room until the inn settled for the night. The bard, Mikael, had finally squawked his last tedious love ballad, and the other patrons had shuffled out the door to head to their respective homes and beds. He gave it another half hour, just to make sure the innkeeper, Hulda, had finally drifted off to sleep in the room behind her bar before creeping downstairs to the kitchen. Up the stairs he glided, a shadow against other shadows. No one would have known he was there.
A soft rapping at Saadia's door caused it to crack open a sliver, until she saw who stood there. Then she opened it only wide enough for him to pass through before closing it quietly behind him.
"Well," he said quietly, "I'm here. What seems to be the trouble?"
Saadia whirled around, whipping out a dagger from under her apron. Balancing lightly on the balls of her feet, it was clear she knew how to use the simple steel blade in her hand.
"So," she growled dangerously, "are you working with the Alik'r? You think you can take me? You so much as touch me, and you're going to lose fingers!"
Startled, Dante put his hands up. "Wait a minute!" he protested. "What is this? Are you serious? I thought you wanted help. Remember, you invited me up here!"
"I'm deadly serious," Saadia hissed, trying to keep her voice low. "Why else would you have mentioned them to me? So, the Alik'r know where I am?"
"I don't know…" Dante began, exasperated, but she cut him off in a panic.
"What did they offer you? Gold?" Saadia demanded, waving the dagger defensively in front of her. "How many more of them are coming?"
Irritation set in and Dante felt his earlier arousal fizzle like embers in a rainstorm. "Put that thing down before you get hurt," he warned, eyes glittering.
Fear entered Saadia's eyes, and she let the tip of the knife fall. "I'm sorry!" she wavered. "Just…just don't hurt me! Please," she implored. "I know you're not one of them, but you just can't help them! You can't let them know I'm here. I'm begging you to help me."
Dante considered this. "Maybe…" he said slowly. "What do you want?"
Saadia gestured for him to sit at the small table to one side of the tiny room. She seated herself opposite when he had done so.
"The men who are looking for me," she explained, "the Alik'r, they're assassins in the employ of the Aldmeri Dominion. They wish to exchange my blood for gold."
"Why?"
Saadia sighed. "I am not who the people of Whiterun think I am," she confessed. "My real name is Iman, from House Suda in Hammerfell. I spoke out against the Aldmeri Dominion. I suspect that's why they sent these men after me."
Something wasn't adding up in her story, Dante knew, but for now he decided to let it pass and hear her out.
"So, you want me to get rid of them for you," he surmised. "And just how am I supposed to accomplish that?"
In point of fact, he felt fairly confident he could do the job, but he had also heard stories of the Alik'r. It would not do to rush into anything just yet.
"They're mercenaries," Saadia – or rather, Iman – said. "They're only in it for the money. They're led by a man named Kematu. If you get rid of him, the rest will scatter."
Dante knew, from his stilted conversation earlier with the Alik'r merc, that they had already left Whiterun to wait for word of their quarry in Rorikstead. He had no intention of tramping all over Skyrim tracking Kematu down.
"Any suggestions as to how I find this…Kematu?" he asked wryly.
Iman hesitated. "I overheard one of the guards yesterday say that one of them was caught trying to sneak into the city," she admitted. "If he's locked up in the jail, perhaps you can get it out of him."
Dante gave himself a mental nod. It was possible. It would depend a great deal on how much loyalty the captured Alik'r had to his band of brothers. Clearly, though, there would be no evening entertainment tonight. He rose.
"I promise nothing," he warned. "But I'll talk to the man in the jail and see what he has to say. It will have to wait until morning, however."
"You won't go unrewarded," Iman promised. "I managed to smuggle some of my wealth out of Hammerfell when I left. There will be a tidy sum set aside for you if you get rid of the Alik'r for me. It's the least I can do."
Dante gave a leering smile. "Yes," he nodded. "That would be the very least. We'll discuss my…fee…later."
He turned and left, though he didn't miss the appreciative smile that came over her face. It would seem Iman wasn't averse to the idea of fringe benefits.
The man locked up in the Whiterun jail, formerly a member of the Alik'r, had been helpful, but at a cost. Dante rumbled under his breath at the one hundred septims he had been forced to fork over just to get the fetcher to talk. He was amused, however, that Whiterun's finest didn't seem in an all-fired hurry to release their prisoner.
He had asked directions to Swindler's Den, but none of the guards knew where it was.
"Try asking the court mage, Farengar," one of the female guards said. "He keeps a map of Skyrim in his quarters. I'm sure he'll help you."
Dante gave a respectful bow. "Thank you," he smiled. "You're a credit to your uniform." He gave her curves an appreciative look before heading up to Dragonsreach proper.
The court mage's superior attitude grated on Dante, but he held on to his temper long enough to get the information he came for, and within the hour, he was well on his way to the place where Kematu laired with his band of Alik'r mercenaries. The fetcher in the jail had warned him that if he walked into the den, he would be inviting his own death, but Dante wasn't worried. These weren't highly trained warriors; they were mercenaries, brigands and bandits. He was a Nightingale. They would barely know he was there.
It took him half the night, but as Secunda slipped over the mountains to the west, Dante crept up to the entrance of Swindler's Den. The lone guard outside never saw him as he slipped past into the tunnel.
Inside, two bandits were discussing the wisdom of having the very same Alik'r lairing with them. Creeping forward, Dante listened with half an ear while his eyes swept the cavern.
"How much longer do we have to put up with these guys?" one complained. "They give me the creeps."
"They aren't going to be here much longer," his partner said. "As soon as they find that woman they're looking for, they'll be gone."
"Not too soon for me," the first one said. "They've already run afoul of the Whiterun guards."
"I heard that, too," said the second. "Seems like one of them was stupid enough to get caught."
"Maybe we could tip off the guards," the first one suggested slyly. "Might even be a reward in there somewhere."
"Better not let that Kematu hear you say that," the second one warned. "He scares me more than the others."
While they spoke, Dante peered around the cave. It was irregularly shaped, with part of the wall curving in towards the center of the area before pulling back again, partially dividing the chamber into two sections. He couldn't see much of the far end of the cave. To his right, however, there appeared to be a sort of upper level that went further back into the hillside. Lights and sounds came from that opening.
Feeling this might be a way to avoid a lot of contact with most of the bandits here – after all, it wasn't his job to clean out every den of iniquity – Dante worked his way silently around to the right until he was under the ledge. Silently drinking a potion of invisibility, he hauled himself up, hand over hand, until he reached the top, remaining in a crouch once he had pulled himself over the edge. The two bandits below continued talking as though he had never been there, and Dante smirked in satisfaction.
Moving down the tunnel at the back of the hollowed-out area, he found a ramp that led down into the bowels of the den. Voices came from somewhere up ahead, and he remained in a crouch, creeping slowly forward up the tunnel until it dog-legged to the left, opening into a largish chamber whose lower level was filled with water, but only about waist-high. A wooden ramp led down into the water, and at the back of the chamber, a cascade poured down from somewhere above. Behind that waterfall, Dante could see the gleam of torchlight, telling him there was another exit behind the spray.
Milling around the upper perimeter, no less than a half dozen Alik'r mercenaries were talking, drinking or sharpening their long, curved scimitars. At the back of the cave, one stood apart from the others; he was the only one not wearing a headdress, but he was also the only one with two scimitars strapped to his hips. This had to be Kematu.
Several options played through Dante's head at this point. He knew he could probably steal in and take out one or two – possible three, if he was lucky – before the others would be aware something was wrong. But that wouldn't answer the questions running through his mind since his conversation with Saadia. He could confront Kematu directly, but he had no guarantee the Redguard would be truthful with him. He wouldn't know, of course, until he spoke with the man.
Dante prided himself on being a fairly good judge of character. In his business, he had to be. Many a good deal might be made or lost with an accurate assessment of the client's disposition. He felt he could tell with precision when someone was lying to him.
He decided to take his chances and talk to Kematu first. He rose and stepped into the light.
Several warriors near him started and suddenly drew their curved swords.
Dante tensed, prepared to defend himself. Perhaps he was wrong after all.
"Alik'r, hold!" Kematu cried, and his mercenaries relaxed their guard slightly. The Redguard addressed Dante directly. "You've proven your strength, warrior. Let's avoid any more bloodshed. I think you and I have some things to talk about." Dante realized immediately that Kematu had assumed he had fought his way through the bandits in the outer chambers. That the leader of the Alik'r couldn't conceive of anyone creeping in the back way was a fatal character flaw; one that Dante might be able to use to his advantage.
Kematu beckoned the Breton rogue to come closer. "Stay your hand, warrior!" he warned, noting at once that Dante had not relaxed his guard. "It's no secret why you're here and you have proven your skill in combat. Let us talk a moment, and no one else needs to die. I think we can all profit from the situation in which we find ourselves. My men will not attack you, if you will lower your weapons."
Shrugging, Dante sheathed his daggers. "Very well," he said slowly. "Why don't we start with why you're after this Redguard woman?"
"That's an easy one to answer," Kematu said evenly. "She sold the city out to the Aldmeri Dominion. Were it not for her betrayal, Taneth could have held its ground in the war. The other noble houses discovered her betrayal and she fled. They want her brought back alive. The resistance against the Dominion is alive and well in Hammerfell, and they want justice."
"Interesting," Dante mused. He didn't ask how long ago this 'betrayal' had taken place, nor why it had taken so long for assassins to be sent after Saadia. Iman, he told himself. Her name is Iman. The Great War had ended for the Empire in the Year 175 of the Fourth Era, but Hammerfell had fought on against the Dominion alone and unaided for another five years, until the Second Treaty of Stros M'Kai was signed as an acknowledgement that the War had ground to a standstill and neither side could win. That was twenty-four years ago. Saadia was barely thirty, from the looks of her. How could a six-year-old have betrayed her people? "You do know," he said now, "that I've been sent here to kill you."
Kematu seemed unconcerned. "Of course, sent by... what is it that she's calling herself these days? Shazra? Saadia? One of those, correct? Did she appeal to your sense of honor? Your greed? A more... base need, perhaps? It doesn't matter. No doubt she's convinced you that she's the victim. But, do you know why we pursue her?"
"Enlighten me," Dante drawled.
A flicker of annoyance crossed Kematu's brow, but it was quickly suppressed. "'Saadia', as you know her, is wanted by the noble Houses of Taneth for treason," Kematu explained. "We were hired to see her returned to Hammerfell for her crimes. You can help us with that, and make sure no one else gets hurt."
Dante said nothing. He knew what Kematu must think of him; that he was an ordinary mercenary Saadia hired to kill the ones coming after her. What Kematu couldn't know was how much Dante knew of the politics of Hammerfell. The noble houses jockeyed for position there nearly as much as they did in his home Province of High Rock. If it was to be assumed that "all" the noble Houses were after 'Saadia,' there was no doubt in his mind that they were staging a coup against her House, just as surely as the political upheaval in Wayrest had killed his father and half-brothers a decade ago. One day, he promised himself, House Montrose would pay for their crimes.
What he recalled now was a report that had been diverted to him before he became the Emperor's favorite. The report had stated that a noblewoman from one of the Hammerfell noble houses had disappeared. Details were sketchy and questionable, but according to the report, Houses Fada and Tasa claimed she had stolen artifacts that had been heirlooms of their Houses for centuries. Other reports stated the items in question were betrothal gifts she had not returned when the marriages didn't happen. A breech of Redguard etiquette, to be sure, but hardly worth hiring assassins to eliminate her. House Suda had been one of the richest Houses in Hammerfell; a union through marriage would have been highly desirable for either House Fada or House Tasa. That 'Saadia' had rejected both arrangements seemed likely. It appeared that the two rejected Houses were working in tandem, then, to punish her, and take by force what they could not get through negotiations.
Dante knew also that the Redguards had no love for the Dominion, having fought them to a standstill less than a quarter century before. Why then would the Dominion hire Redguard mercenaries to bring this woman to justice? Why not send their own Justiciars? In addition, Redguard mercenaries would have little interest in working for the very faction their country had fought against within living memory. They might be paid warriors and assassins, but they were still Redguard. So Saadia's claim that these were Dominion-paid assassins didn't make sense.
However, Kematu's claim that the city of Taneth could have held out against the Dominion if Saadia hadn't betrayed it was an out-and-out lie, given that Saadia would have been far too young at the time to have done anything that might have been taken seriously. Redguard children could be precocious, but they weren't that mature!
All this went through his mind in a flash. "What would you have me do?" he asked. It never hurt to explore one's options, after all.
Kematu relaxed a bit, sensing a favorable end to his quest. "She trusts you, at least to some extent," he smiled. "She sent you after us and has no reason to think that you'd do anything other than that. Convince her that we'll be coming for her, and she needs to leave. Lead her to the stables outside Whiterun. We'll be waiting to take her into custody. I'll gladly share a portion of the bounty in return for your efforts in seeing proper justice done."
"And she won't be harmed?" Dante inquired. A corner of his mind was amused at Kematu's assumption he could be bought. Well, to be fair, every man had his price, but someone of Kematu's stature could never hope to afford Dante's retainer fee.
A brief flicker went through Kematu's eyes. It was so fast that if he hadn't been watching the man closely, he might have missed it. It was a slight shuttering, as if attempting to prevent the truth from being seen.
"Not on the way back," Kematu replied in a flat voice. "Once she gets there, it's not up to me to decide what's done with her."
Dante nodded. So that was the way it would be, he realized. Saadia – Iman – was doomed the moment he turned her over to them. She would never see Hammerfell again; these men would make certain of that. They were willing to bribe him into betraying her to lead her outside the city where the Whiterun guards would be fewer, and less likely to reach her in time to save her, once Kematu and his men left the stable area with her.
"Well, gentlemen," he sighed, "I must do what's right."
Kematu was still smiling when Dante whirled and sunk his ebony dagger in the Redguard's throat. Leaving it there and drawing his sword – a beautiful ebony blade with a fire enchantment on it that he had named Inferno – Dante cast a paralysis spell at the closest Alik'r warrior to him and invoked Nocturnal's blessing.
Immediately he was wrapped in shadows, and the Alik'r further away lost sight of him.
"Where did he go?" one shouted in dismay. "He was right there!"
"He must have gone into the pool and through the waterfall," another cried. "Alert the robbers!"
Two of the Alik'r headed down the ramp and Dante deduced that the tunnel behind the cascade must lead back into the other area of the caverns he had not explored. Perhaps he should have cleared them out after all. Oh well, there would be time for that soon enough.
The two remaining Alik'r who had not been paralyzed ran down the tunnel Dante had come in by, and he realized he was cut off. Nocturnal's blessing would only last just so long, and he wouldn't be able to call upon it again this day. He would only have his own rather impressive ability to hide in shadows and sneak his way through. Still, the mercenaries were now separated into smaller, more manageable groups. It would be easier to take them out this way. He sheathed Inferno, realizing it wouldn't be needed this time.
He removed his dagger from Kematu's throat and wiped it clean on the Alik'r's vest before shoving it up and under the ribcage of the paralyzed warrior. As this one bled out, he cleaned the blade a second time – this time on the merc's headwrap.
Crouching and moving on silent feet, Dante headed down the tunnel through which he had come, seeing the two Alik'r returning.
"Nothing!" one said in disgust. "It's like he vanished off the face of Nirn!"
"What are we going to do, now Kematu's dead?" the other worried.
"I don't know," said the first. "Go back to Stros M'Kai, maybe?"
"Maybe," the second mumbled, shocked. "I can't believe he's dead! He seemed invincible."
The other said nothing, and the two passed by Dante without noticing him as he pressed himself against the side of the tunnel.
Once they passed, he silently rose behind the last one in line and drew his dagger across the man's throat. It was done so swiftly the merc never had a chance to cry out, and Dante eased him quietly to the ground. The other Alik'r, deep in his own morose thoughts, never noticed, and Dante padded up silently behind him, giving him the same treatment he'd given the first.
Four down, two to go, he thought with satisfaction. Of course, there were still all the bandits in the other chambers to bypass. And where there are bandits, there's sure to be treasure, he grinned to himself.
Working carefully, chamber by chamber, Dante moved through the den like a ghostly harbinger of death. None saw him coming, and none were left behind. He pocketed the gems and gold he'd found, as well as a few potions and magical items he knew he could sell back in Whiterun. He recalled there seemed to be some sort of general goods store in the market place as he passed through.
It was very early in the morning when he finally returned to the Bannered Mare. He tumbled into his bed and slept until past noon. Entering the common room, he noticed 'Saadia's' absence and remarked on this to Hulda.
"Poor girl is feeling under the weather," the innkeeper said sympathetically. "It's left me a bit short-handed today, but if you need anything, I'll have Olfina bring it to you."
"No, that's not necessary," Dante said. "I'd like to pay for another night, however. I have some business in town, and then I'm leaving early tomorrow morning."
"Sure thing," Hulda beamed. "Would you like me to show you to your room?"
"If it's the same one I slept in last night, then no," he said with a smile full of charm. "I know where it is."
He waited until she was busy with someone else, then slipped into the kitchen and headed up the back stairs to 'Saadia's' room. Tapping lightly, he smiled when it opened a crack, then swung open wider to let him in.
"Have you found out anything about the Alik'r yet?" Iman whispered.
Dante gave her a steady look. "The Alik'r won't trouble you anymore," he told her. "And you weren't completely truthful with me."
"In what way?" she gasped, surprised.
"Nearly all of Hammerfell hates the Dominion," he stated. "So why would anyone there care if you spoke out against the Aldmeri? And why would the Dominion send assassins after you – Alik'r assassins, no less? They would have used their own Justiciars."
Iman shifted uncomfortably and sighed. "I didn't think you'd help me if you thought it was just political infighting," she admitted, hanging her head. "I'm sorry."
Dante leaned forward and tipped her chin up, forcing her to look at him. "Let me give you a bit of advice," he smiled. "Keep your lies simple. Stick to the truth as much as you can, so you never have to remember what you've said. If your lies are mostly true, no one will notice the little falsehoods you weave into them."
Iman gave a tremulous smile. "I'll remember that, if I'm ever called upon to lie again," she said. "Now, I believe I owe you a reward for what you've done."
Dante gave her his best leer. "Bring it to my room tonight," he suggested, before turning and heading downstairs and into the town to conduct his business. Yes, he thought with some satisfaction. Tonight is shaping up to be a very good night.
The sun had not yet risen when a shifting in the bed next to him awoke Dante.
"Leaving so soon?" he drawled, smiling.
"I have to," Saadia said stretching. Her dusky body glinted in the light of Secunda, streaming through the window, and he took several moments to appreciate her stunning beauty. "Hulda will be awake soon, and I don't want her to see me leaving your room."
"Is there a problem with that?" he frowned.
The Redguard woman quirked her lips. "Not from me," she told him quietly as she gathered her clothes. "And for most of Skyrim, it's something that probably wouldn't turn heads. But Hulda is…well, I guess 'straight-laced' would be a good term. She thinks 'pleasuring each other,' as she calls it, should be reserved for the marriage bed. Olfina and I are not supposed to be…entertaining…the guests."
"I see…" Dante frowned.
"Don't get me wrong," Saadia cautioned him. "I enjoyed our tryst…very much! You're an amazing lover!" She paused and gave him a seductive smile that caused his manhood under the covers to jerk in response. "It's just that…well…Hulda took me in and gave me a place to hide, though she doesn't know that's what I'm doing. But she can be very critical of what she calls 'loose women.' Not too long ago, one of the women in town was discovered dealing in illegal drugs. I always suspected Ysolda was involved something like that. And it was no secret that some of the guards could be seen entering and leaving her house at all hours of the day and night. But until she was arrested and hauled away to Dragonsreach dungeon, Hulda kept her peace. Once the truth came out, Hulda was the most scathing of her critics. That's why I need to go back to my room now."
Dante nodded. From a certain point of view, he supposed, it made sense. He rose from the bed and began searching for his clothes, which had been scattered about in the heat of passion last night. Saadia had already wriggled into her shift, and he paused a moment, distracted by her finer points.
"I hope to see you again, next time I'm in town," Dante smiled, finding her apron under his shirt. He came over and helped her lace up the back of her dress. "You are an amazingly talented woman."
"And you aren't at all what I expected in a Breton," the woman purred over her shoulder. "Most of those I've known are like Belethor."
"Belethor?"
"The sleazy little man who runs the general store here," she explained. "He's always leering after every pretty girl who walks by." She shuddered. "He gives me the creeps!"
She gave him a quick, hard, passionate kiss at the door before opening it. "You'll keep my secret, then?" she confirmed. "And remember that I'm Saadia now, and not Iman?"
"I'll remember," Dante nodded. He had every intention of keeping her secret and gaining her trust. It might be a good idea to have a connection to Hammerfell through House Suda. There might come a day when he'd have to call in that favor. Until then, Saadia was an accomplished lover, well versed in the Dibellan arts. He would definitely look her up again.
He opened the door without a sound and let her slip out, then returned to finish dressing and packing up his bag for the trip north.
It was still well before midday when Dante concluded his business in Whiterun, selling off the loot he'd found in Swindler's Den. He headed out of town and was making his way to the stables, intending to inquire about the purchase of a horse, when a balding man in Nordic carved armor sporting a bristling moustache stopped him.
"Excuse me," the bald man said in his thick Nord accent. "I'm looking for a Breton man named Lance de Fer. Might you be him?"
"Perhaps," Dante said cautiously. "Why are you looking for him?"
"I'm Gregor," the Nord smiled. "I'm Housecarl to the Dragonborn, Marcus of Whiterun, and I've been sent to collect you and bring you to Heljarchen Hall. My lady Tamsyn, the Arch-Mage, gave me a sketch of you, to look out for."
He showed Dante a page of parchment with a charcoal sketch, and he had to admit the likeness was striking. So, the Arch-Mage was an artist, as well? Was there no end to her talents? At least it's not a bounty poster, he thought gratefully. There are enough of those out there. And they always get my nose wrong.
"I'm Councilor de Fer," he admitted. "Do you have a horse for me?"
Gregor chuckled. "No, sir. We're going in style. I've brought the carriage." He gestured across the road to an open carriage similar to the unmarked one waiting near the stables. The one to which Gregor pointed was embellished with a coat-of-arms on the side: a silhouette of a horned dragon's head, facing forward, in gold against an oval green field.
"May I take your bag, then?" Gregor prompted. Dante hesitated for the barest moment before handing it over. To his credit, Gregor never acknowledged the weight, but hefted it easily into the back of the carriage. "If you'll climb aboard," Gregor continued cheerily, "we'll be off."
"I'll sit up front with you, if that's alright," Dante said. He knew he'd get a better view of the surrounding countryside that way. Years of watching his own back made him cautious.
"I don't mind if you don't," Gregor smiled. "It'll be nice to have some company for a change!"
Dante hid a private smile. The best way to find out about your mark was to get their servants to talk. It wasn't that he intended to rob the Dragonborn – he wasn't stupid – but he wanted to find out as much as he could about the man, to be able to report back to the Emperor his findings on whether he would be a decent successor or not.
Gregor, however, proved to be a difficult nut to crack on that subject. Though he waxed long and loud in his praises of his Thane, and offered several tales of following him into barrows, bandit dens and Dwemer ruins, he was close-mouthed about the Dragonborn as a man.
"You don't have any idea where he came from?" Dante asked ingenuously at one point when Gregor admitted this. The Housecarl seemed completely unconcerned by this oversight. "He's an Imperial, isn't he?"
"Aye," Gregor frowned, "but there are lots of Imperials who were born here in Skyrim, so I can't say for certain if he ever lived in Cyrodiil."
Dante tried another tactic, "What did he do before he learned he was Dragonborn?"
"I wasn't with him then," Gregor answered politely, "so I can't speak to that."
"Did he side with the Empire during the Stormcloak rebellion?"
"I thought everyone knew my Thane was the one who negotiated the peace treaty at High Hrothgar," Gregor remarked, surprised. "Why would he take sides when he was trying to bring about a cease-fire?"
Dante gave it up. He wasn't going to learn anything useful from the Housecarl by direct questioning. No wonder the Dragonborn had hired the man! Ask the servant about his wife, and he would get a warm, dopey look in his eyes, happy to talk at length about her beauty, her spirit, her skill at arms.
"We haven't been married all that long," Gregor said proudly, "but I feel as if I've known Lydia all my life."
"I understand the Arch-Mage is…in a family way?" the Breton rogue probed delicately. "She mentioned this to me in her letter."
"Aye," Gregor grinned. "It will be good to have young ones growing up at Heljarchen. The place was built by my Thane because of his large family. The other children don't get to visit as often, but there will be room for them when they do."
"Other children?" Dante asked. He vaguely remembered the Arch-Mage mentioning other children at home.
Gregor then launched into a description of each of the Dragonborn's adopted children, from the youngest, Lucia – who still lived at home – to the oldest, Blaise, who was working for the blacksmith in Riften.
"A blacksmith?" Dante blinked in surprise. "The son of the Dragonborn is a mere blacksmith's apprentice?"
Gregor frowned as he smacked the reins against the sorrel mare's hips. "Gee up there, Sadie!" he called, and the horse obliged by quickening her steps for the next quarter-mile before slipping back into her steady plod. "My Thane lives a quiet life," he finally answered. "He doesn't believe in all the frills and frippery that usually go with a title. He's a simple man with simple tastes."
"The man who destroyed Alduin the World-Eater and killed a vampire lord intent on blotting out the sun lives a quiet life," Dante remarked with some irony.
Gregor shrugged. "He did those things because he's the Dragonborn," the Housecarl said loyally. "He's the only one who could have done them. It doesn't mean he wanted that kind of life. When he's not being asked to step in and help put down bandits, or clear out a cave full of Falmer, he prefers to stay quietly at home with his family."
Dante allowed a private smile. He just learned much more about his target by indirect questioning, rather than coming right out and asking. He reflected on the irony: that the Dragonborn might be the hero of Skyrim – and indeed, of Tamriel itself – but he was an intensely private man who did not like to call attention to himself. This was in opposition to the information he had liberated from a Thalmor-held Ayleid ruin which indicated that the Dragonborn was a direct threat to the future of the Dominion itself. He wondered if 'Marcus of Whiterun' knew the extent to which the Aldmeri Dominion wanted him dead.
Given the information he had gained so far, he compared what he had learned of the man with what passed for public knowledge of the Dragonborn. He was held in high regard by most of the Jarls of Skyrim and seemed to be in confidence with most of them. Furthermore, if rumors were to be believed, he had struck a significant blow against the Thalmor by planting something within their Embassy in Haafingar that was eating the faction from within.
It was no secret that the Summerset Isles were in turmoil. The Isle of Artaeum had vanished once again. The Psijic Monks often withdrew from the world when they disagreed with the ruling bodies of the Summerset Isles. In this time and place, that ruling body was the Aldmeri Dominion. To be exact, this was the Third Aldmeri Dominion, and if history was to be believed, they were but a shadow of the glory that had been the First.
It had been the fringe faction known as the Thalmor that claimed victory during the Oblivion Crisis, leading all to believe they had been responsible for closing the Oblivion gates and defeating Mehrunes Dagon in his attempt to invade Tamriel. Though most knew this to be false, the Empire was too shattered and disorganized after the death of the last Septim heir to dispute the claims. Those who spoke out against the Dominion were hunted down and not see again. In time, most learned to accept the lie, because it was easier than to fight it.
Now, however, it seemed as if even the Thalmor were struggling to retain their hold on Tamriel. Dante had received reports out of Valenwood that indicated the rebellion there was gaining a foothold. Not all Bosmer enjoyed the occupation of the Dominion. There were even rumors – which Dante was desperately tracking down – that indicated an heir to the throne of Falinesti might have escaped the wrath of the Dominion. If proved true, he or she was in grave danger, and Dante had sent his second-in-command, Reydin Glane, down to the Bosmer's home province to see what could be discovered. The latest reports were in his bag in the wagon behind him.
Minnow was holding down the fort at home, and he was pleased with the reports he had received so far. Though some of his organization left when the traditional thieving jobs "dried up," – Garibaldi included, and Dante didn't regret that one bit – many stayed, finding the thrill of stealing from the Dominion to be more than adequate compensation – and much more lucrative – than stealing from some petty nobles in the far-flung corners of Cyrodiil.
His fellow Nightingale had also successfully tracked down Janus, the Imperial who had betrayed them at Vilverin by abandoning them to the Thalmor. Needless to say, Janus' body would never be found. Of the two team members who had been caught in the fire set by Dominion operatives, only Da'zhir had survived, though badly burned. There were large patches of his fur that would probably never grow back. He had become quieter, more introspective, but had insisted on remaining with the organization when he learned the new direction it would be taking.
"This one would like very much to give payback to the Thalmor," the Khajiit insisted. His twin, Da'zhar, had agreed. Dante had sent them into Elsweyr to learn what they could of Dominion operations there, and the reports – also in his bag – were encouraging.
Though the Mane who lived nearly one hundred years ago had submitted to an alliance with the Aldmeri Dominion in Year 115, with the dissolution of the Elsweyr Confederacy following the dreaded Void Nights, there had been rising dissatisfaction over the last century among the population at the treatment received by the Dominion. Many Khajiit were unhappy about their status as second-class citizens in their own country. Recently, at the Palace of the Mane in Torval, there had been a steady stream of petitioners seeking audience with the current Mane to address their grievances with their situation. There were even rumors that the Mane himself was considering severing ties with the Dominion, though they were still only rumors, and unsubstantiated.
All this information was secured safely within the Guild Headquarters in the Ayleid ruins beneath the Imperial City. He had not shared it with the Emperor, knowing the questions that would follow and not caring to explain himself at this time. He couldn't explain why, but he was becoming quite fond of Titus Mead the Second. There was a keen mind and a wide streak of guile within the debilitated husk of the old Imperial, and Dante found himself appreciating the intricate diplomatic dance the Emperor had been forced to undertake to keep the Aldmeri Dominion from taking over the Empire following the defeat after the Great War. Few people understood exactly what Titus Mead had done, in agreeing to the White Gold Concordat; few knew how much they owed the man for their very lives. Had he not "bent the knee," as some criticized, and retained his hold on the few remaining Provinces of the Empire, the Thalmor would eventually have swept across Tamriel, and the Dominion objective of racial purification would already have begun. By signing the Concordat, and agreeing to the crushing terms of that edict, he had bought some time to attempt to restore some of the strength of the failing Empire. What he didn't know – could never know – was whether it would be enough, and whether it would be in time.
The carriage had pulled off the main road while Dante considered the events that had brought him to this point. He understood why Titus Mead would want to choose a successor, and he even understood why someone of the stature of the Dragonborn would be at the top of the list. To the Emperor, only someone like the hero of Tamriel could keep the Dominion at bay and restore the glory of the Empire.
But he wanted that job for himself, and he resented the Dragonborn for being the first choice.
They were heading up a long, gradual hill now, passing by a farm whose windmill turned lazily in the breeze that swept down the tundra. It brought a chill with it, and Dante shivered a little inside his state robes. He felt vulnerable. He would have preferred to wear his armor, as he had done while creeping through Swindler's Den, but this was official business, and he was here as a representative of Titus Mead the Second, so state robes were expected. It didn't mean he hadn't taken precautions. Under the robe he wore a close-fitting tunic of boiled leather, well-worn and travel-stained. It wouldn't offer much protection, but it was better than nothing.
After another mile or so a building loomed on the horizon, situated at the top of the rise. Sturdy and strong, built of massive logs and hewn stone, Heljarchen Hall gleamed against the darkness of the pine trees that framed it. To the west, the land continued to rise. To the east, it fell away, rolling easily down to thicker, forested areas. He could see the road they had left behind winding its way to points unknown. Behind him, as he twisted around, the sweeping vista of the tundra sprawled down past the farm they had passed earlier. In the distance, he could still see the city of Whiterun, with Dragonsreach on the knob of granite jutting from the plains. Beyond that rose the majestic, glowering peak they called the Throat of the World.
He had to admit it, it was a magnificent view, and he was duly impressed.
Gregor brought the carriage to a halt and set the brake, jumping down easily for a man as heavily armored as he was. He paused briefly, as if to offer Dante assistance in alighting, but the Breton man waved him off and leaped nimbly to the ground. Gregor shrugged and went around the back of the wagon to retrieve Dante's bag.
The door to Heljarchen Hall opened, and a man and woman stepped out to greet them, followed by a young, dark-haired girl with a mastiff dog at her heels.
The woman, he knew, was the Arch-Mage of the College of Winterhold, known simply as Tamsyn. She was, he judged, about mid-way through her term but carried herself well. It was the man beside her that drew his attention.
Tall, imposing, with dark brown hair swept back from his face and secured by a simple leather thong at the nape of his neck. A single silver stud earring gleamed in his left ear. Steel grey eyes swept over Dante, appraising him, taking his measure. The Dragonborn's finely-chiseled features were clearly Imperial, though he seemed taller and leaner than the soft diplomats Dante knew back at court. He towered over the Breton man, who was by no means diminutive in stature. A polite smile of greeting was fixed on his lips, but those piercing grey eyes held caution.
"Councilor de Fer," the Arch-Mage smiled warmly, with a private quirk of her lips. She knew his true identity. "Welcome to Heljarchen Hall!"
Dressed in a loose-fitting woolen robe of a deep forest green, embroidered at the collar, hem and cuffs, the Arch-Mage wore a circlet of silver and moonstone in her deep auburn hair, from which one lock of pure white attempted to escape. A simple band of gold on her left hand, matched by a similar one on her husband's, indicated her marriage to the Dragonborn, and another ring of plain, unadorned silver rested on her right ring finger. A silver necklace set with a sapphire and a pair of simple silver stud earrings were the only other jewelry she wore. As Dante drew nearer, however, he could sense the magic that radiated from them.
"Please allow me to introduce you to my husband, Marcus," Tamsyn insisted.
"Tamsyn has told me much about you, Councilor," the Dragonborn rumbled in his deep voice.
"Nothing good, I hope?" Dante joked.
"Nope," the Imperial said, a slight lift at the corner of his mouth betraying his amusement. "Nothing good at all. This is my daughter, Lucia," he added, before Dante could respond. "And this is Barbas." He patted the dog's head, who lolled out his tongue.
"I'm very pleased to meet you," Lucia said shyly, dropping a courtesy.
"Likewise, I'm sure," said Barbas.
Dante blinked, glancing around furtively. "Uhh…"
"Lucia!" the Arch-Mage scolded, though she failed at keeping a straight face. "I thought we agreed—"
"It's not my fault, Mama!" the girl protested.
"Barbas," the Dragonborn rumbled.
"Hey, he might as well know now, rather than later, right?" Barbas said, shaking himself all around in what passed for a shrug. "I mean, it's not like you're tryin' t' hide anyt'ing from him, right?"
Dante cleared his throat. "Do I want to know…?"
Tamsyn laughed. "Come inside, out of the cold," she invited, stepping aside to let him enter. "We'll explain everything once you get settled."
Inside Heljarchen was as warm and comfortable as anyplace in the Imperial City, Ayleid ruins notwithstanding. The entryway was lined with display cases, weapon plaques and armored mannequins. The Great Hall beyond this was expansive, with a vaulted ceiling rising past a second floor above. At the far end a fireplace blazed, generating enough heat to keep the entire room comfortable. Rugs from Morrowind were scattered around the floors, and a long table carved from birch wood was set up in the middle of the room. Closer to the fireplace, chairs had been set at either side to allow one to sit and enjoy the warmth.
To either side of the Great Hall were flights of stairs leading up. At the base of each were doors leading into other rooms, and Dante could see additional doors behind the stairs on either side. At the back of the Hall, again at either side, arched openings led to possible servants' quarters, or perhaps a kitchen area. From his vantage point on the first floor, he couldn't see much of the second, but it was in this direction that Tamsyn led him.
"Your room is up here," she explained, and Dante followed, with her husband and the Housecarl in tow.
At the top of the stairs, a dark-haired woman with a patch over one eye came around the corner.
"Everything is ready, my lady," she smiled.
"This is Lydia, our Steward," Tamsyn introduced. "Gregor is her husband."
"I'm honored to make your acquaintance, Councilor," Lydia beamed. "We don't get visitors from Cyrodiil here, so you're the first."
"If you need anything at all," Tamsyn smiled, "just let Lydia know."
Dante acknowledged this with a nod, and the Arch-Mage led him down a short hallway to the right and opened the first door on her left.
"This will be your room," she smiled as Gregor placed his pack on a nearby chair. "We'll let you get settled in and rest before the evening meal. I hope you like venison."
"It's been a while since I've had it," Dante admitted. "The Imperial Court tends to eat a lot of beef. But I've always liked venison."
"Then you'll love what Tamsyn does with it," the Dragonborn smiled. "She's a regular Gourmet!"
Dante lifted an eyebrow. "You do your own cooking?" he asked. "You don't have a chef?"
Tamsyn shrugged. "We're out here in the sticks," she explained. "There's really only the five of us here. Six, if you count Barbas, but he doesn't eat. When I'm home, I do the cooking because I like to. When I'm away, Lydia cooks. And we're both teaching Lucia."
Dante nodded cautiously. The comment about the talking dog unnerved him. A dog that didn't eat?
"We'll let you get settled," Tamsyn said again, sweeping everyone out of the room ahead of her. "Dinner is at six. Come down when you're ready." She closed the door behind her.
Alone for now, Dante shook his head. There was quite a lot here that needed explaining. A man as renown as the Dragonborn could have had an army of people working for him; he could have maintained a large, richly appointed home in any of the major cities in Skyrim. Yet he chose to live simply, in a remote part of the country, with less than a handful of servants to attend to his needs.
He looked around the room. Though it was not lacking in amenities, the walls were simple stone and plaster, not marble or polished granite. The carpets beneath his feet were from Hammerfell; the ones downstairs were from Morrowind; but none were antiques. The furnishings were sturdy and comfortable, but there was nothing here to indicate wealth, except for the size of the home.
He went to the window and noted that the glass was not artisan, such as the leaded glasses of High Rock, or stained glasses of the Imperial City. It was thick but plain, much like the people of Skyrim, he thought sardonically. It served a purpose, a function, but did not pretend to offer aesthetics to the room.
The view from his room, however, was quite pleasing. Above the pine trees he saw rolling hills leading away to the north. A wolf skulked into view about a mile away, and he realized exactly how far from civilization he truly was. In all his thirty years, he had never spent much time outside a city. Growing up in Wayrest and living the rest of his life in the Imperial City itself as a thief and merchant, he seldom had need to go out into the wild if he could get some enthusiastic mercenary or subordinate thief to do it for him. It wasn't that he had no experience at all; he had explored his share of caves and ruins. It was simply that he preferred people and buildings around him to wide open spaces. There were more opportunities for wealth in the big cities.
And yet, here he was, meeting a man who was already a legend – a man hand-picked to be the Emperor's heir – while he had skulked in the shadows, much like the wolf outside his window, hoping to grasp his fortune from a world that had no intention of just handing it over. He sighed. What had he gotten himself into?
[Author's Note: Dante and Marcus set out to find the pieces of Mehrunes' Razor, and Dante learns that the Dragonborn is not to be underestimated.]