A/N: Chapter three, here you go. Nice to see so many people reading this, it makes me feel like my efforts are appreciated. May or may not be another chapter at the end of November; I'm going to be trying my hand at NaNoWriMo and might not get to update.

Anyways, Happy Halloween! Read, Enjoy, Review.

Chapter 3

I remember my first real death. The first time I provided death to another person, not a farm animal or game.

It was my mother, and it did not gain me entrance to the Brotherhood, although perhaps it started me on the path.

A sickness had passed through our family like a storm, but my mother had been an alchemist, once. Still dabbled in it, and so kept death at bay.

Until she got sick herself, and ran out of the vital ingredient. By then, it was her and little Felicia. Papa chose to take my brothers and sisters, lest they fall ill again, down to Chorrol and the chapel for the healer.

But time was short.

Mama told me how to make enough for Felicia, and then showed me how to make a special draught. She was calm, and I think it helped. I hold to that memory every time. That peace, knowing that her death held a purpose. Cold, calm, still. A serene acceptance.

I was nearly 10, and I watched with her through the long night. If I wept, I do not recall.


Casually clothed, Joss blended well into the morning crowd that congregated outside the chapel. She could hear their chatter over the river's babble, and was unsure as to which held meaning. She ignored the gossip and skirted around the statue, only to be accosted by a guard outside a home.

"Stand clear, this property has been seized and is now sealed until further notice. Good day." She stared at him, bobbed a curtsy, and made her way up to the castle; she stopped just outside to stow her pack.

Petitioners were common, and she kept her pace slow and unhurried. Her watchful eye picked out the mannerisms, and she adapted to them, easy as breathing. She was plain enough that the guards eyes passed over her without a pause, and she walked into the castle, her eyes scanning the lush garden in the entrance. Ahead, her amulet told her the Count was full today. Odd for so many, and there was a fear in the undercurrent of the voices.

She hung back to watch, hovering near the bookcases, years of thieving and killing telling her the best way to approach the Count, avoid the guards, or slip through forbidden doors. She counted the soldiers and servants, and made note of their patterns.

People came and went, while she studied the layout and paced the walls to gauge distance. The stairs obviously led to the private quarters; that door, to the Great Hall, that one, the bedroom of an old guild contact. She wondered what hidden passages this castle might possess. Castles were notorious for dank, dark paths, clandestine walkways, and quick, secret escape routes; experience with Leyawiin had taught her that. Curiosity begged of her to find the castle's secrets, to peruse its mysteries.

She turned her gaze instead to the Count himself. A Dunmer clad in blue velvit, he came across to her as competent, arrogant, and not a mer to be trifled with nor easily intimidated. A Chameleon spell and a whispered warning wouldn't cut it with him. She racked her memory for what else she had gleaned about him in her time in Cheydinhal.

He was Hlaalu, which wouldn't have meant anything to her except that she'd asked Vicente once before. So she knew that, as a member of that House, he would be clever, keen on coin, and ruthless. Rumor held that he'd murdered his pretty wife, an accident with the stairs, whose bust currently resided in her chest in Sanctuary. She smiled to herself over the irony.

On closer inspection of that thought, however, was the remembrance of his known indulgence in his foolhardy son. A mer that devoted would be so with a wife as well, unless she'd committed a grievous crime. He was aging, she had not been; he was intemperate and said to be a womanize, yet was visibly fond of his sole living kin.

She dwelled on this, sorting hearsay with what she could see, and comparing that with observed and reasonable behavior. She came to the conclusion that whatever she did, it must be carefully done. He would not be forgiving if she failed to truly frighten him.

And she doubted Lucien would be pleased with her folly were she caught. He had only interfered once before, and the punishment had served to teach her adequate caution.

The voices of the crowd washed over her, and she saw the noble prat enter the court. Gleaming steel rang as he preened and strode through the throng. He approached his father, and eloquent words fell inarticulately from his lips, and she cringed from her vantage point.

She could threaten the Count, she supposed. Show him that the Dark Brotherhood knew his weaknesses and could get to him. It might work, but she had her doubts as to a simple threat being enough. He had been visited before; whatever she did would have to hit home with him.

She mingled with the crowd, pushing closer for a better view of the Count and son. She watched their interaction, then back towards the bookshelves. An idea was forming in her mind, hazy but unsatisfactory.

The crowd jostled her, and she knocked over silverware on a nearby table. Water drenched her skirt and a crumbled copy of the Courier. She cursed, accusing the offender of anatomically implausible parentage before kneeling to clean up the mess.

"Stop, thief," a guard's voice said, sloth and arrogance lacing his tone. She inwardly began cursing the petitioner again, herself, and the world at large. She carefully schooled her face into innocent bewilderment before looking up.

A Breton officer, the Captain of the Guard no less, loomed above her, and in any other place she might have taken advantage of their position.

She held up the fallen dishware. "Sir? I was picking these up, clumsy I am," she drawled, the cringed inwardly at herself. Too much of the Weald in that, not enough foothills, too out of place.

His eyes raked her. "You were stealing. And loitering. Pay a fine of 30 gold, or I'll slap you in irons," he demanded, his own words colored with the cultured tones of High Rock. Her shocked gape was unfeigned; stealing silverware never earned more than a dozen septims, and she'd never heard of a fine for loitering!

She'd paid her due in the past, when she'd been honestly caught. She felt it to be tolerable punishment for being careless. This was another matter entirely.

"I-I'm sorry, sir, I don't… don't have that much," she stammered, moving her affected accent closer to that of the locals. His gauntleted hand viced around her arm, yanking her to her feet. He searched her and she went cold. In that chill, silent place inside her, the assassin began tallying up the bruises and gropes, weighing them.

"Pathetic. Well then," he said, pocketing the few gold she had kept on her. Just enough for such an occasion: too little, and there'd be suspicion; too much, and people got greedy. He smirked. "I suppose it's a trip to the dungeons for you, then."

She withdrew her earlier solution. This was too familiar to him, and the dungeons would not be a good place to be in, not with other guards, chains, and bars to deal with as well. A growing horror filled her, not for herself, but for others who might have fallen victim. In her mind, the scales' balance tilted precariously. Her eyes caught the glint of jewelry and the rich cut of his doublet beneath the armor, and she slowly smiled to herself.

Too many teeth, but he wasn't looking at her face.

She pulled at her Magicka, sending it out of her and into him through his touch. Calm settled over him, his grip loosening and his face relaxing. She dropped her voice and the smile, recalling her sister's lessons on beguiling men. She looked down at the ground.

"You're hurting me," she whispered; he leaned closer to hear, and with her spell in place, let her go. "I can pay you proper… later," she said, sweeping her eyes up to look at him through her eyelashes. His jaw slackened. She widened her eyes into charming innocence. "Promise."

He gawked, and she stepped back into the crowd.

Another spell, and she faded from sight. She turned and ran. She was angrier than she should have been, at herself for her stupidity, and at him. She was an murderer; she shouldn't care. Cold-hearted. Cut-throat. Killer.

But this close to home, it was a threat. And she couldn't stop herself from caring. Never had been able to.

Keeping herself out of sight, she found her pack and quickly changed from blouse and wet skirt into patched vest and leather leggings. Pulling out her lockpicks, she twisted her hair into a hasty twist. Cara, second eldest, had called it a lover's knot.

Scooping some dirt, Joss brushed it over her face, hands, and hair. She brushed it heavy beneath her cheekbones and along her jawline, casting sharper angles to her features. Leaves in her hair, and the short bow she slung over her shoulder from her pack finalized the effect of having come from the forest.

Skirting the wall, she rejoined the visible world near the gate. If the guard sought the woman from court, they wouldn't expect an archer fresh from the wilds.

The day was still early, and she would need to wait until night to act, in any case. She needed the time to think and plan out her contract. She also needed to clear her head and decide whether the guard was worth her time.

She stopped at Borba's, discussing with the Orc the state of nearby landmarks. The Desolate Mine was overrun by goblins, and the Fighter's Guild was sending a shipment of weapons, and warriors, to deal with it. Of course, it would be nice if the Count raided their lairs. Wasn't there an Ayleid ruin east of the city? Yes, in the mountains…

She sold a few things she'd gathered along her travels, incidental objects, and bought several ingredients. She browsed the bookstore, and added a book on lock-picking to her collection; talking with Mach-Na about the mutual hatred between the natives and the immigrants gave her added insight into the Count. He was a 'no-name trader' with good connections, the only non-Imperial Count; she tucked the information away, and left.

Outside in the sunlight, she rummaged in her pack to shift things around, and found a damp, wrinkled paper. Drawing it out, she realized that she must have picked up the wrinkled Courier by mistake.

She ambled towards the island, trying to read the paper. Most of the ink had run, but the words she caught froze her in place better than one of M'raaj-Dar's spell.

Assassination! SPECIAL EDITION! EMPEROR AND HEIRS ASSASSINATED!

She gripped the rails of the bridge, wood digging splinters into her palm. She scanned the words, though little was readable. What she could read was just history of the emperor. Her breath caught, and she racked her memory for hints at whether the Brotherhood was at work. Such an important contract, surely there'd have been some hint.

She eased when she realized that there hadn't been anything unusual within her Family that would indicate something of this magnitude.

Though she was no longer a dutiful Imperial, she had been raised proper, and this news rocked her. Uriel Septim VII had been emperor her entire life. Who would rule? Could the Council hold the Empire together? Or would it all fall, tumbling down into a destructive down-spiral?

She firmly believed that there was a balance, between life and death, order and chaos, Aedra and Daedra. As a tool of Sithis, she kept the order and life from stagnating, and left the gods to their followers. But what would happen when there was too much chaos, too much death? Would the scales be thrown so far off balance that it would echo on into the decades or centuries to come? Who knew what effects would come of this!

On a more personal, financial note: who would hire an assassin when death walked freely?

"Flyyyin'... flyyin' in the skyyyy... cliff racer flys so high..." an off-pitch voice sang, and she became drenched in alcohol fumes. She cringed at the singing, and gagged at the smell of street living that overcame her.

She turned, and scowled at the offender. He was familiar, a Dunmer farmer, and she thought he owned one of homes over by the Chapel. Across from Sanctuary, that was it. What, she wondered, was he doing, so filthy and ragged? Why was he determined to violate her ears?

And what in Sithis' name was a cliffracer?

She turned back to the Courier, only to find it floating away on the river. She sighed, and started to run a hand through her dark hair, then stopped when she realized it would undo her twist.

Wait and see. Patience and discipline were key, as Lucien had so diligently taught her. Time would give her answers.

She continued her meander, making a detour back to Sanctuary for her equipment, before continuing through the city. Plots formed and fell apart in her mind, half a dozen plausible but inadequate strategies. Paralyze him in his sleep, give a whispered warning and a dagger to the throat. Leave something frighteningly gruesome in his chambers. A series of 'accidents' to make a point and set his nerves on edge. Grotesque reminders of his late wife.

She circled the statue of Arkay before taking a seat at its base, contemplating the Aedra. None of her ideas fit, like tumblers unwilling to stay. The Divine held no answers, not that she'd expected any.

Two Dunmer were arguing nearby, the drunk and a woman. She recognized them, and frowned as the former squared his shoulders and approached, with the swagger of the inebriated. He confronted the guard she'd met earlier, outside what must be the mer's house.

"This is my house! Get out of the way… move, I say!" the drunk demanded. She watched, curious.

A sigh. "Sir, this property has been seized by his lordship, the Count of Cheydinhal. Leave immediately."

The farmer only got angrier: "I said move! Or by my ancestors I'll put you on the ground with a split lip!" Joss cringed; it was the wrong sort of reply, but she was surprised that the guard only seemed bored.

"Sir, I must warn you that threatening a city guardsman is an offense punishable by a fine of no less than 50 gold. Pay or be jailed." Joss' eyebrows shot towards her hairline; 50 gold? For a threat? He might as well ask for an outright assault, that being the lesser fine.

The Dunmer seemed to be thinking the same thing, if he was even thinking in his fetid state. "You s'wit! How dare you! How dare you! Ulrich be damned! He can take his fine and stuff it up his backside!" She wondered what a s'wit was, and missed the guard's reply. She came to her senses as the drunk attacked with a dagger –a dagger, against a city guard, in broad daylight?!- and scrambled to her feet.

Pressed against the sun-warmed marble, metal flashed in an ugly dance of steel and blood. The mer fell. Crimson slowly pooled at the base of Arkay's statue, oddly bright in the full sun. The guard was speaking.

"You saw what happened, I had no choice. Aldos attacked first, and I had to defend myself. If you don't like it, take it up with Ulrich."

She looked at him, rage smoky hot inside her. It was an unworthy kill, pointless and unneeded. Worse than even Gogron's bluntness. The guard still looked uninterested; this had been an inconvenience, a nuisance.

The dead mer's companion, the woman, was cursing and screaming obscenities. Joss stared at her, then at the guard. She looked from the blood and death to the impassive statue. Arkay, god of the funeral rites and burials, of the dead. How symbolic. How absolutely appropriate.

In her mind, the tumblers finally fell into place.

The rest of the day was spent gossiping with the Orcs and Dunmer, visiting the tavern, and pretending to get roaring drunk. It was easy to fake, and rather fun to do. Had she heard about the Mage's Guild? The guild hall leader, killing recruits! In the well, no less! And the famed painter, missing! Of course, taxes were much too high and the guards never around when you actually needed them…

In her dealings, she had heard the whole range of Ulrich Leland's corruption, a soul just begging for the void. She heard of absurd fines, and the particulars of the late mer. His late wife, his drunken grief. She understood it well, and finally placed her anger. It reminded her too much of Papa.

She heard of the guards who followed Ulrich's glorious example, and she dearly hoped they would continue to do so. Let them watch, and learn, and take heed. She nodded at all of it, the sympathetic listener to their intoxicated ramblings, and stored it away.

She made her preparations.

She found time to wash the 'road dust' from her face, and mix up the potions while she waited. A woodaxe went missing. A few articles of clothing. A fine bottle of Surilie's wine.

And she waited. Waited for Tales and Tallows. Waited for shifts to change, for one last drink before turning in.

When Ulrich entered his quarters, the room was already lit with candles. She leaned against the bedpost, bottle in hand. He stopped in the doorway, eyes focusing with careful effort on her; he'd been drinking with the others, and was just a tad dizzy. He took in the flimsy blouse, baring her shoulder, the trailing ties of her bodice, the slit she'd cut into her skirt, a scandalous glimpse of leg. He blinked and roused himself.

Her head was down, bashfully so, and his eyes were not on her face, and so he did not see her cast her spell. It made him set aside any lingering suspicion over her presence and their earlier encounter.

It drew him closer, and she looked up, a ready blush spreading over her cheeks.

"I said I would pay…" she said, holding up the bottle. A leering smirk settled on his face, and he closed the door. He approached slowly, and laid claim to it. His other hand grabbed her arm. A favored tactic, it seemed.

"So you did," he said, then held the bottle to her. Her eyes met his, hesitant, before she took a swallow. He tilted it too much, and it spilled plastering the top of her blouse to her chest. She sputtered and jerked back.

He laughed and took a swallow. He looked her over again. She fidgeted, her eyes traipsing around the room. He took another drink, then set it down.

Her amulet told her the guards below were in their beds, but beyond that she could only hear their sounds as they settled down for the night. She waited, letting him make the first move while she made a show of hesitation, toying with her skirt.

It came with a kiss, brutal and biting as she'd expected. Punishment for earlier; her spell had drawn him in, but hadn't soothed his earlier indignation.

She cried out, and shook, and he pulled back with a laugh. Inside, her heart grew cold and patient, tracking his movements.

He pulled off his chainmail, and the doublet he wore beneath. Her eyes skimmed his bare torso, keeping them wide and afraid. "Go on, then," he ordered. Obediently she began to untie the laces of her bodice, fumbling with shaky fingers.

He picked up the bottle and took another long swallow, and she pulled the bodice away. His boots and gauntlets came next, leaving only his damnable greaves. She missed his next words, focused on the snores from the other room. Steady, and rumbling, heavily dosed; the violet haze from the amulet indicated no large movements.

He came forward, and she stifled her irritation that his leggings remained. His hand traced her jawline, down her neck and stopped at the amulet. He took a long swig from the bottle, and lifted the jade with his finger.

"'S pretty," he slurred, mimicking without knowing her last encounter with Lucien. She gave a fleeting, shy smile, trying not to smirk; he was nothing, a ham-fisted fool to the icy, keen edge of the Silencer. She raised her eyes to meet his, letting her lip quiver. Fear? Desire? Or amusement?

His hands grabbed hers, hard, and led them to the ties that held up his greaves.

She tugged at them, uncertain and reluctant in the loosening, pulling more than necessary. They fell from his slim hips, a clinking pool around his ankles.

She yanked her hands back and balled them against her skirt. She fidgeted with the linen folds, looking down.

He kicked the greaves away, struggling to get his feet untangled. She watched him, and from the slit in her skirt, she drew forth the length of ebony. Cold and sharp, she held it hidden in the folds.

He reached for her, and she struck.

Once, the inner thigh left gaping, a red mouth bared to the bone.

Twice, the other side, her strike tearing through the flesh.

He stared, a comical expression of disbelief; the initial slice had not yet registered. Her other hand shoved her bodice into his mouth as the pain struck, and his keening howl was muffled. A Silence spell kept it from leaving the room.

His hands fumbled at the wounds, blood pouring from the torn veins in rivulets to flood the floor.

His eyes met hers, and she did not fidget. He reached for her, scrabbled at her blouse, tearing it in his fruitless struggle.

She stared, her face devoid of any expression. Distant and tranquil; this death held purpose. He stopped, stumbling back.

Then, slowly, she smiled, and pursed her lips, blowing a kiss at him. "For Sithis."

He collapsed.

She looked him over, then down at her bloodied clothes. The easy part was done. She could leave the room as it was, but she wanted to ensure that every guard got her message.

She walked over to the wardrobe, opened it, and surveyed the contents. Clothing, rich brocade and soft velvet and fine linens. With one hand, she pulled each out; with the other, she slashed and discarded them.

She pulled out the silverware and jewelry, and piled them in the middle of the room. Pulling her pack from beneath the bed, she withdrew the woodaxe and chopped the precious metals into irregular pieces.

Detached and composed, she turned to the corpse.

Chopping wood wasn't about strength. It was about using the motion of the swing to force the wedge of the ax head through the grain. She'd chopped firewood all her life. In one swift motion, she swung the woodaxe up over her head into an arc. Down with bent knees, she continued the motion, adding her weight to the force.

The axe sliced through skin and muscle, and only stopped at thick bone.

She aimed, and chopped. Hewed until the head came loose. There wasn't much blood, as most had already drained out of him.

One more job for the woodaxe, and with it she hacked through the chainmail, negating the emblem of Cheydinhal.

Bloodying her hands, she left the mark on the wall before stripping out of her clothes. She wrapped the head in the ruined linens and cleaned her hands. Into her shrouded armor, she collected the letter she'd found in his things, and left the gold, though it ran against her twitchy fingers. It felt wrong to leave good coin behind, but in this moment, she was not a thief.

She gave the room one final look.

On the floor, a pile of excellent rags, bits of costly metals, and a headless, disgraced body. The mark on the wall. Perfect. Not subtle, perhaps a tad elaborate – some that lacked artistry and theatrics might say overkill – but the message was unmistakable.

Cast in shadows, she slipped out of the barracks and into the castle proper. To the Knight of the Thorn's room, to collect a trinket or two, and then to the Count's own chamber.

On his desk, she was disappointed to see that he had not a set of scales. Onto surface she set the head, its letter in its mouth, and across from it she placed the bribe, a signet ring, and a medallion. In the space between, she used the Count's ink to press a dark, solid handprint.

If he didn't get it, she'd return to clarify things for him.

Dawn found her climbing into her rented room. She shed her armor and slipped into bed. She was exhausted, and the detachment was fading, leaving her languid and thrilled with her achievement. She needed a few hours' sleep.

The sun was halfway to noon when she rose. She raked her hair up and out, making it truly disheveled. She rubbed her eyes until they were red, and squinted around the room. She needed a bath, but that could wait. She dragged on the leathers and vest, stowing her armor into her pack, and plodded out of the room, down the stairs. The Dunmer proprietress looked at her, and chuckled.

"You led the boys in quite a round last night," Dervera said. Joss glared at her with bleary eyes, and the mer shook her head. "I might have a cure if you want," she offered. Joss dropped herself onto a stool.

"Never works. Hot water an' breakfast," she grumbled. She pulled out a packet of pre-mixed herbs, peered at it, and dragged a copy of the Courier over. While steeping the packet in the mug presented, she skimmed over the Legion's failed attempts at catching the Grey Fox. She let a crooked smile slip.

She had met him. Once. She couldn't remember what he looked like, but she knew the Legion would never catch him.

The rest was rubbish written to attract readers, and she set it aside in favor of the tea and food. Both served to refresh her fatigue, and she relaxed the squint and affected hangover.

The door opened, and two guards came in. They looked green and pale, and began their day quite well with a bottle of brandy. Joss silently applauded their choice. She kept her head down as they spoke.

"Can't believe it…"

"The strength it musta taken t' do that?"

"Think it was the Orum gang?"

"No, idiot. Didn't you see the mark?"

"Couldn't get in the door. Just saw a glimpse of… you know…"

"Yeah."

"Orc?"

"Or a Nord."

"Coulda been skooma…"

"A khajiit, then?"

"What's going on?" the Dervera asked. The guards looked at her, and Joss raised her head, watching with fitting curiosity.

"Captain Ulrich Leland was killed last night. Dark Brotherhood."

"By the Nine! You're sure?"

"Who else? And he's dead as dead, ain't no mistaking that. His head's missing. No one knows where it is."

Joss pushed her plate away, prudently sickened by the news. She dropped her jaw in feigned shock, and tried not to grin.

The Count was wisely keeping his mouth shut.

She listened to them tell the innkeep all the gory details, and leaned in to listen. The guards told the story in equal parts horror and fascination, and both she and the mer were good listeners.

When they finished, they left, stumbling out the door to their posts. If all the guards were like that, today would be a fine day for mischief.

A pity she had other things to do.

She paid for her meal, then rose and shouldered her pack. "How do you get to the Desolate Mine from here?" she asked, then listened absently to the directions she didn't need. Her eye lit on a week old Courier, wine-soaked and faded, but legible.

It was the one she'd been unable to read in full: ASSASSINATION!