Hannat Zainsubani, currently a Mastermind of the Thieves Guild and 'guy-in-charge' of the still nameless and very loose alliance of the Nerevarine, sat on a chair outside of the Ald'Ruhn Mages Guild with a irritated frown on his face and a parchment scroll in his long-fingered hands. The scroll was filled from top to bottom with an expansive list of people. It didn't just contain names and addresses, it also listed their jobs, their religions, and even their ranks within Morrowinds' many factions—and the people named in it were almost all figures of some importance. In short, this list contained so much information that it was almost certainly priceless.

Unfortunately, the person who had written it had nearly made it intelligible. It wasn't the handwriting—whoever wrote this had a very clear, if a bit insecure hand of writing—but the great amount of crossed-out misspellings, hastily added notions and smeared-out blots of ink that added a great deal of difficulty for the reader. It was so bad that Hannat had been forced to move out of the gloomy half-light (and studious silence) of the guild hall to read by the clear light of the sun.

Normally he would have found sitting outside a blessing rather than a curse. Ever since he had been hauled out of the stinking darkness of Mamaea by a garishly clothed adventurer, Hannat had spent almost every waking moment out of doors. He loved feeling the wind on his skin, whether it was a gentle breeze or a winter storm, and at first he had even gotten sun-burned just to know what it felt like again. There was simply nothing like walking over the newly sprouted grass and looking up to see the open, ash-less sky above you instead of a low rocky ceiling.

Today, however, the lovely silence of the crisp winter afternoon was effectively strangled by what had to be the most irritating voice Hannat had ever heard, and that included Aengoth the Jeweler's awful whining. Of course, the voice alone wouldn't have been that much of a problem if the guy would just shut up. But he didn't. The guy was very talkative for someone who had proclaimed himself to be very shy; and after a halting start he had started to ramble away, apparently deciding that the man next to him was not dangerous.

Hannat didn't think of himself as particularly scary, but he knew that this was the result of being a close friend to some people who were considered, even among Morrowind's violent society, frightfully dangerous. His own appearance was had always been at best described as 'I don't like that goatee', and at worst as: 'The Camonna tong is after us! Run for your lives!'. He could live with that. After all, he looked positively friendly when compared to the people he usually went on drinking sprees with. Most of them were either walking armories who tipped in their sujamma through their closed visors, or crazy-eyed mages in blood-splattered robes who went on loudly about setting people on fire. One or two of them were a strange mix of both. When their ensemble walked into a bar, you could be sure that it was already half empty—by then, most of the regulars had already quietly filed out of the back door.

The point was that even if you ignored how scary the guy next to you looked, this man had still forgotten that no one in his right mind would ever risk important things—like his life, for example—on the patience of an already irritated Dunmer. Calling Louis Beauchamp 'in his right mind' was an insult to most regular madmen, however. This guy was completely cuckoo.

'I say, friend, what is your name anyway?'

Hannat was startled out of his reverie by the loud, questioning voice of the Breton, and he had gripped the hilt of his dagger before he realized what was going on. 'My name is not important,' he growled in a dangerous tone of voice. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the Breton look questioningly at his right arm. Hannat quickly started patting around as if he was searching for something in the pockets inside his cloak. His irritated look was completely unfeigned.

'I always loose things in there, too,' Louis said, nodding sympathetically. 'One day I was checking my pockets—I was going to wash my cloak, you know, hadn't done that in ages—and I found a nest of mice in there! And you know what the weird thing is?' The man let his voice drop to a whisper.

'Well?' Hannat asked tiredly.

'I don't even remember putting them in there!'

'Ah,' said Hannat, turning his attention back to the list. He found that his mind actually recoiled in horror from having to wrestle with that monstrous collection of inkblots and badly worded descriptions again, and he rolled it up with a sigh. Perhaps it was better to let a trained decoder transcribe this thing before looking at it again. There was time enough—after all, it wasn't like Dorvaim would be done plodding around Solstheim for another month or so.

He suddenly realized that Louis was looking at him again, and, more importantly, that the guy had fallen silent. Apparently he had asked a question. 'Sorry,' Hannat said. 'Did you ask something?'

'I know a very good doctor if you've got trouble with your hearing,' the Breton supplied.

'I was concentrating on something else,' Hannat snapped.

'Oh, all right,' Louis said, shrinking back a little. 'I was just asking if you're a teacher, that's all.'

'A teacher?'

'Yes,' said Louis, as if it were the most logical thing in the world. He gestured at the tightly rolled scroll. 'Whoever wrote that thing hasn't been writing for very long yet. He—or she, of course, wouldn't want to be sexist after all… girls can write just as well as boys, or at least, that's what they tell me anyway…' He caught Hannat's dark glare and continued hastily: 'Well, what I'm saying is that this person is trying their best, but he just isn't very good at it yet. Or she. Yet. So I thought that maybe you were correcting some student's work.'

'You can tell that from just a glance?' Hannat said. He felt rather surprised at this lunatic showing such an unexpected amount of skill.

'Child's play, really.' The Breton shrugged. 'If you'd let me look at that thing again, I could also tell you if it was a boy or a girl, and if he or she was in a hurry when he or she wrote it. Things like that.' His look suddenly turned pensive. 'Is a piece of parchment a he or a she, anyway? Your language is pretty crazy, you know. I always mix your pronouns up.'

For a brief moment Hannat just wanted to yell: 'It was written by the damn NEREVARINE!' into the oblivious Breton's face. But then the thief in him took charge again, held up the scroll, and slowly rolled out the top part. It had to do with the Offices of the Watch in Vivec, and the main entry was almost blotted out by the huge amount of extra information scribbled around it.

Louis looked intently at the scroll. 'Male,' he said after just a few seconds. 'His phrasing is rather mature, though, even if he's still new to the notion of writing things down. He's probably a perfectionist, and he has an astute sense of observation, too.' Then the Breton blanched slightly. 'And he has a very dangerous sense of humor.'

Hannat remembered the passage—something having to do with laughing in the face of an Ordinator who had been struck with an incurable itching curse. It was in bad taste, of course, but Hannat had found it quite funny. Then he caught the curious glare of the Breton and quickly rolled up the scroll again. 'Sorry,' he said. 'Classified.'

'Aww,' said Louis, his expressive face changing from happy curiosity to a kind of puppy-eyed sadness.

'How did you do that?' Hannat asked suspiciously.

'How do I do what?'

'Know those things about… whoever wrote this,' the thief said. He narrowly avoided saying 'about the Nerevarine'.

Louis puffed out his chest in self-importance. 'I told you I was a scholar of some notability, didn't I? This is just one of my many great skills.'

'Like building disappearing airships?' Hannat suggested.

Louis went off into a long-winded explanation of why he was, truly, a very learned man and that he had built a great airship which undoubtedly must have been struck by an enormous disaster to get waylaid this badly, but the thief didn't really listen. At first he had gathered that Edwinna had only allowed this man to loiter on her doorstep out of pity. Now, however, it seemed that the crazy Breton could actually be useful—and she probably knew that, too.

'… and I told them to check the fuel supply every half hour, but they probably just didn't listen to me.' Louis sighed. 'Nobody ever listens to me,' he complained.

'I listen to you,' Hannat said smoothly.

Louis's face brightened noticeably. 'That's true,' he said. 'It's a shame that you aren't a girl, of course—I wish I could make the girls listen to me…'

Hannat made sure that the Breton didn't see him roll his eyes. 'Do you know anything about the Dwemer?' he asked then.

'… you're very nice, of course, but you lack certain… what?' Louis blinked his eyes. 'My dear friend,' he said, sounding somewhat offended, 'my whole airship ran on Dwemer technology! And I dare say it worked quite well. It probably survived countless storms before getting caught up in whatever awful thing has caused it to be delayed that much.' He frowned. 'I do hope that guy I sent after them will manage to catch up with it.'

That bit was new to Hannat. 'You actually sent someone after it?' he asked. It was more in the way of action than he'd ever thought the guy would take. 'You must have searched a long time to find someone crazy enough. No-one in his right mind goes to Solstheim in the dead of winter.'

'Oh, he was crazy alright,' Louis said smugly. 'I might be a bit scatter-brained at times, but I'm not going to Solstheim. I'm not stupid.' Hannat had to suppress a laugh at that remark. The Breton didn't notice, but rambled on: 'The man seemed kind of eager to go off there anyway. I couldn't see his face because of all his armor, but I think he might be a Nord. It would explain the eagerness.'

Hannat nodded vaguely, his mind already on different matters. Edwinna was greatly interested in the Dwemer, of course, and she would take advantage of any opportunity to learn more about them. It would explain why she let this idiot stand outside her neat Guild and harass her visitors.

'Are you a teacher, anyway?' the Breton said.

'No,' Hannat said tiredly, 'I'm not.' He had already decided on the answer to the following question ('what do you do, then?') when he noticed that Louis had fallen back to rambling about that pretty Imperial girl he once talked to.

The thief got op, looked over his shoulder at the still-talking Breton, and silently tiptoed over to the entrance of the Mages Guild. Louis probably didn't hear him, because he was still talking as Hannat shut the door firmly behind him. Hannat silently thanked Azura that one talkative bearded mage wasn't in the hallway—the guy would probably have received a punch in the face before he could even open his mouth—and went to his chamber to put the scroll away. 'Why does everybody want to talk to me, anyway?' he muttered irritably.

'It's because of your sunny disposition,' a female voice noted from close by. 'Or perhaps it's just that magnificent soul patch of yours.'

'Oh, hi Ivrosa,' said Hannat without turning around. 'Didn't you have some underlings to bully?' he asked. 'Somewhere in the general vicinity of Dagon Fel, perhaps?'

Her footsteps followed him. 'You're in a rare mood today, Hannat,' she said. 'You're venomous, but not sharp. Did that idiot Louis pull your fangs by accident?'

'It's more like I wore them down,' Hannat said. He stopped at his door and drew a lock pick out of one of his many pockets, not bothering to pat himself down in search for the key. 'I think that guy really only hears himself.'

'You know Edwinna wants you to stop picking her locks,' Ivrosa said disapprovingly. 'It damages them.'

'She's a hypocrite. Most of the mages here go about locking and unlocking stuff by magic, and that damages them even more.' He heard a rustling sound, which probably meant that she was now sitting on the balustrade of the gallery. Edwinna didn't like that, either, but somehow Hannat didn't really feel like pointing it out. Instead he crouched before the door, put the lock pick in, and started prodding.

'Anyway, the guy seems to trust you a lot,' Ivrosa said. 'It's funny. He just mumbles and stammers to the rest of us, you know.'

'It's probably because most of you are women,' he said. 'He thinks women are very important.'

He could almost feel her broad smile on his back. 'Well, we are,' she said. 'I think I like him a lot more already.'

There was a satisfactory click from the door. 'Why don't you ask him on a date?' Hannat suggested, getting up and stepping into his room. 'He'll probably faint on the spot, but that's just his way of saying that you're important, isn't it?'

'Well, he's able to talk to you,' Ivrosa said. 'I'll just take you along, and then you can translate for us.'

'I still don't know why he likes me so much,' Hannat grumbled. In the background, he could hear Ivrosa whisper 'soooul paaatch'. He put the scroll away in a desk, locking it with a small key and dropping the key in a random pocket. Then he walked around the bed and sat down on its edge, facing Ivrosa. She sat calmly on the rather thin balustrade, the serious expression on her face enhanced by the blue light in the hallway. There were bags under her eyes, he noted, and her cheeks were very hollow, even for a Dunmer. The transfer from the Ascadian Isles to Ald'Ruhn probably didn't agree with her. She might banter with him as always, but she certainly didn't feel like always.

Hannat decided to get this over with quickly. 'Let's hear it,' he said in his most businesslike tone.

'Ringleader Ivrosa Verethi reporting for duty, Mastermind,' she said, and she wasn't joking this time. She cleared her throat. 'We've got a message from Solstheim. Apparently the priestess of the Gnisis Temple, Mehra Drora, found this letter fluttering around when she was sweeping her courtyard this morning.' She reached into her pocket and drew out a worn-looking piece of parchment. Someone had scrawled Hannat Zainsubani, Sneaky Guy, probably in Ald'Ruhn on top of it.

'No-one in Gnisis has reported any unusual activities,' Ivrosa continued. 'We suspect that Dorvaim hasn't been there himself. It seems like he has managed to cast Almsivi Intervention on the letter only.'

'That's a novelty,' Hannat murmured, rising to take the parchment from Ivrosa.

'He has always been a bit unconventional,' she agreed. For some reason, her eyes were sparkling mischievously as she said that.

Hannat suppressed a sigh. 'Is it that bad?' he asked, looking down at the folded letter. 'That scroll of his has damaged my eyes enough for today.'

'Just read it.'

He sat down again and carefully opened the folded parchment, revealing a long letter that looked like someone had deliberately soaked it and wrung it out a couple of times. It was, however, surprisingly readable.

It started with Happy New Year Hannat! Hannat sighed. 'I it looks like he's celebrated winter solstice with the locals.'

You're probably wondering why I've gone off to Solstheim without stopping by to see you. I was planning to visit you guys first before doing anything else, but fate, as usually, intervened. Don't worry—no-one has handed me a prophecy yet. It was pretty clear, however, that something wanted me to go here. After I'd skewered Almalexia—Hannat winced—everyone I spoke to managed to say something about Solstheim. It was almost like they all had cosmic instructions to do so.

'Yes, Hannat,' Ivrosa said pleasantly, 'he just used the word 'skewered' to describe what he did to Morrowind's most popular god.'

I was really fed up with the cosmic stuff at that point, so I ignored them and travelled back to go and speak with Vivec. Then I went north in search of you, and I managed to get as far as Ald'Ruhn before fate (Azura?) stopped nudging and gave me a hint that was nothing short of a punch to the face.

'Sometimes I want to punch him in the face, too,' Hannat muttered.

'I don't think you'd survive that,' said Ivrosa.

'I think it's worth the risk,' the thief said angrily. 'That bastard was here in Ald'Ruhn! He probably stood on our doorstep when he decided to go on this impromptu mission of his! It's always this way with him. Anytime we need him he's off to fight outlaws or to extinguish burning orphanages or whatever.'

'Or rescuing over-confident thieves from Sixth House bases,' Ivrosa murmured.

'Touché.'

He looked at her to find that she was calmly cleaning her nails with the point of a curved fighting knife. Her expression was surprisingly solemn. 'You don't get it, do you?' she said.

'Get what?' Hannat snapped.

'You're the most thief-like thief I've ever met,' Ivrosa said. 'You sneak, you lie, and you cheat, and it's all because you don't like to follow the rules. For you things like laws and orders are like the bars of a cage, and you strive to escape them as much as you can.' She sighed. 'It's not like that for everyone. Dorvaim has his orders, too, you know.'

'Azura,' said Hannat disapprovingly.

'He doesn't like her orders, Hannat, but he doesn't have to. All he has to do is follow them. Sometimes the world is like that. You can't imagine submitting to that kind of thing, but for most of us it's a part of life.'

'You're a thief, too,' he said accusingly.

She smiled vaguely. 'I'm a part of this guild, yes,' she said. 'But I'm not like you. Being a thief is not in my nature. I've always been a master-at-arms, and no amount of your bad influence is going to change that.'

'Like Dorvaim.'

Ivrosa nodded. 'I suppose so.'

Hannat sighed. He didn't entirely understand her argument, but it seemed to make sense in a rather vague way. Perhaps it's because she's a woman, he thought before looking back to the letter again.

So now I'm here, in the snow. It's dull, it's cold, it's wet, and every piece of iron I took with me is now a chunk of rust. The landscape is all white, so there's not much sightseeing to do, and the wildlife isn't much fun either (although those bears I killed will probably make great rugs for back home). There are some werewolves scattered here and there, and they are enough of a fight to get your blood warm. They're pretty moderate in the way of entertainment, but that's more than I can say of the Nords. Every Nord I've met until now was unfriendly, half-drunk, smelly—

(At this point Dorvaim had removed a lot of words by simply making inkblots on top of them.)

—so today I got the idea to just sink the whole island into the ocean. It's a bad idea, of course, not in the least because I think Morrowind isn't quite ready for a war with Skyrim yet. To my surprise, I even found the idea of war with Skyrim more interesting than figuring this werewolf thing out. I guess this is what feeling bored is like. After a while, every quest is the same, and I've found that all frozen dead bodies look alike.

It's not like I'm not keeping busy, but all this stuff is just becoming… tedious, I guess that the word is.

And 'blasé' is a good word to describe you, my friend, Hannat thought ruefully. The average werewolf probably ate Nord for breakfast, and those guys were tough fighters. He shuddered at the thought of ever having to face such a monster in single combat. It probably was true that Dorvaim didn't find them much to a challenge—but then again, Dorvaim was the Nerevarine. How could a werewolf ever be considered more than an appetizer if you always had half-god for dinner?

Hannat decided that Dorvaim was allowed to find werewolves minor nuisances, but that he definitely ought to learn not to rub that fact into people's faces.

I'd rather be home with you and Ivrosa—maybe to make a start to my political career or something like that. That's why I've decided to take a few days off in the near future. The third week from now would suit me rather fine.

Hannat blinked and read the last sentence again. 'Three weeks?' he asked Ivrosa, startled by the sudden change of tone in the letter.

She nodded. 'I think he trusts you.'

'Are you trying to be funny?' Hannat demanded. 'Three weeks to bring everyone together—everyone?'

'It's not impossible, Hannat.'

'Neither is swimming to Akavir.'

She sighed. 'Sometimes I think you're only this difficult because you know it annoys me. We'll call a gathering of our friendly factions tomorrow and let them break their skulls over this problem.'

Hannat crossed his arms. 'Well then, Captain Verethi, let me annoy you a little more. Have you ever considered what those 'friendly factions' might think about each other?'

Ivrosa frowned. 'You mean like the Telvanni and the Mages' Guild?'

'Yes, exactly like those two.'

'If we select the most reasonable representatives...'

Hannat sighed. 'Let's have it your way-for the sake of the argument. We'll make sure that the Telvanni send their most progressive members, like Master Aryon and... Fast Eddie, I guess. And then we'll have the Mages' Guild send their most tolerant members.'

'Skink is their top man,' said Ivrosa. 'He's a extremely reasonable guy. I don't think I've ever seen him get angry about anything.'

Hannat gave her a level gaze. 'You do remember that Skink is an extraordinarily fierce anti-slavery campaigner, don't you?'

She nodded. 'But Dorvaim forced the Telvanni to abolish slavery, didn't he?'

'So the Telvanni have already made concessions.' Hannat said. 'Against their will, I might add. And the Mages are smug about the fact that justice has been done.'

'But...' Ivrosa tried to interrupt him.

'That's enough of that!' Hannat snapped. He rose from the bed and started pacing across the room. 'Putting them in a room together and asking them to be nice won't solve this. They won't put their hereditary enmity behind them. Why would they? They'd have to forget about several ages of power struggles, mutual betrayal and bloodshed. They'd have to put aside the fact that they still, on a very acute and personal level, completely disagree about how Morrowind should be governed.' He shook his head. 'Face it, Ivrosa! The only thing that connects the Telvanni and the Mages is that Dorvaim's their boss. 'Very reasonable' or not, Aryon and Skink would probably burn each other to cinders on the spot.'

Hannat stopped his pacing and looked at Ivrosa. She was very pale, and her hands clutched the banister so tightly he saw the tendons in his arms stand out. 'Then what do you propose we do, Mastermind?' she whispered.

He didn't know, but he wasn't about to falter. Not now. 'Go outside and fetch that crazy Breton for me, Ivrosa.'

She just stared.

'Ringleader!' Hannat reprimanded.

Ivrosa, still wide-eyed, blinked once in confusion. 'Mastermind.' Then she was gone.

Hannat lifted Dorvaim's letter again. He ignored the shaking of his hands and read the last few sentences.

Make sure I'll get an appointment with Tholer. Have you convinced him yet? Wait, never mind, you can't answer that question like this anyway. Tell me when I'm here.

You should also get someone to my tower. Make sure they know how to avoid tripping the alarms—or tripping over my stuff, for that matter. There's a box on the mantle in my sleeping room. There's ten grey, sort of plumb-bob shaped stones in there. They need to go to Folms Mirel in the Caldera Mages Guild; he'll make a thing called the 'Master Index' from them if you pressure him a bit. I'll send another letter in a week, and you'll need to have that Master Index by then.

I think that's all for now. Have fun being out in the sun, Hannat. I envy you.

—Dorvaim

PS: give Ivrosa my regards, will you? And try be a bit nicer, the transfer's been hard on her.

Hannat looked up from the letter. He now had another tough nut to crack—Dorvaim wanted Tholer Saryoni, and thus the Church, to be included in their inner circle. He hoped that the old man had recovered a bit... and if not, that the dissident priests had at least managed to get a foothold within the Church.

And those plumb-bob-things—he would probably go to Tel Uvirith himself, seeing that not many people were capable of sneaking past the tower's defenses. According to Dorvaim, 'the best defense is one that can't be switched off'. It mostly meant that anybody who a) wasn't a master thief or b) couldn't levitate would be cut to ribbons by the Nerevarine's very own Dwemer Centurions.

There were footsteps in the hallway. Hannat looked up to see a very distraught Louis Beauchamp being herded into the room by a rather grim-faced Ivrosa. 'Any other orders, Mastermind?' she asked coolly.

Hannat waved with the letter. 'Did anybody else read it?'

'It was cursed. The only one who could have read it was Edwinna, seeing that she is the one who broke the spell.'

He nodded. 'Thank you, Ringleader.' He hesitated, and then added: 'Take the rest of the day off, Ivrosa. You've earned it.'

Her eyes narrowed in suspicion, but he made a shooing motion with his hand. 'That's all.'

Louis made a sound that, arguably, could have been translated as: 'bye Ivrosa'.

Ivrosa turned on her heels and left. Hannat watched her go with a sensation of unrest in his stomach. Perhaps Dorvaim was right—he often was a bit harsh on Ivrosa, even if it had never been as bad as today. Perhaps the stress of being in charge was getting to him.

His reverie was broken by a very audible whisper from Louis: 'She's very pretty, isn't she?' Then he nervously glanced around, as if making sure that she was out of earshot.

Hannat blinked. 'I—she—what?'

'I think she likes you,' Louis added softly. 'But I think she's also upset with you. You could be a bit nicer to her, you know?'

'I—yeah,' said Hannat. 'Yeah, I know. I should be... nicer to her.' He frowned. Getting involved with Ivrosa had been the last thing on his mind. She was attractive, of course, but in a harsh-faced, battle-scarred sort of way. Calling her 'pretty' was quite a ways off the mark. He wasn't sure she was his type. He wasn't sure he was her type, for that matter, because she liked guys with big expensive swords and...

He shook his head. 'Anyway,' he said, more to collect his thoughts than to say anything. From the corner of his eye, he saw that Louis sat on the bed and was now eyeing him expectantly.

'I should probably apologize to Ivrosa later,' Hannat said somewhat lamely. He wondered how he was going to tackle this. He needed Louis' help with the list, and for that he needed to know if he could trust the guy.

Louis nodded.

'But right now you're probably wondering why I've called you here,' he continued. Not the most original start, but he saw Louis shifting closer to the edge of the bed. 'The truth is, Louis, that I need your help. We need your help. Morrowind...'

'Who are 'we' here exactly?' Louis interrupted. 'I mean, I only met you this afternoon. You're a nice guy, of course, and Ivrosa's nice to look at, but let's be honest here...'

'Louis,' Hannat said. 'Have you ever heard of the Nerevarine?'

Louis nodded solemnly. 'It's an exotic fruit tree from Valenwood.'

'We're—what?'

'Fruit tree,' said Louis. 'From Valenwood. Very rare, or so I've heard.'

There was a moment of dumbfounded silence as Hannat tried to process what he had just heard. 'You—you know about Kangrenac, right?' he said lamely.

Louis frowned. 'What does he have to do with fruit trees?'

'Oh, come on!' Hannat growled. 'You can't be that daft! You're an expert on the Dwemer, for Azura's sake!'

Louis shrank back. 'I think I misheard something,' he stammered.

'KAN-GRE-NAC,' Hannat said loudly.

'No—no, the other one.'

'Nerevarine,' said Hannat. 'NER-EH-VAR-INE. You know. The incarnation of Indoril Nerevar.'

The crazy scholar fidgeted. 'Now him I've heard of.'

'That's great,' Hannat said sarcastically. Then he suddenly remembered who he was dealing with and added: 'I'm sorry, Louis. I'm just... stressed is all.'

Louis very slowly reached out, as if to a skittish animal. For a second, it seemed that he wanted to put his hand on Hannat's shoulder. Then he realized that he couldn't reach that high while sitting down and instead awkwardly patted the thief's elbow.

'Thanks,' said Hannat.

'Do you know that you're a very scary guy when you get angry?' Louis asked him timidly.

'I've been told so.' The thief sighed. 'Let's get down into the main hall and grab a drink,' he suggested.

The scholar nodded. 'I could do with a glass of water.'

Hannat grinned. 'Something a bit stronger, I reckon.'

'But I don't drink!' Louis protested.

Hannat grabbed the scholar firmly by the shoulder and hauled him upright. 'You're going to need it, Louis. Getting drunk expands your... credulity. I think you'll be able to appreciate that. This whole mess makes more sense when you're drunk anyway.'

The worn-down bar where they met was located in a basement in one of the less reputable parts of Mournhold. The place was filled to the brim with people, most of them dunmer, and the air reeked of spilled sujamma and sweat. A large majority of the clients openly wore weapons. All of them seemed dangerous, and the huge gash that split the battered counter in two was mute evidence of the fact that things could get very nasty in here.

A tough-looking servant had directed the altmer towards an empty table in the back. The rest of the place was completely choked with people, but they almost respectfully kept their distance to that rickety table. It made the altmer feel more than a little bit on edge. Apparently the Camonna Tong thug he was going to meet was quite a bit more important—and a bit more dangerous—than he had previously guessed.

The barkeep came and put two tin cups and a bottle of flin on the table. The altmer nodded in thanks, but before he could pay the man, he was gone already.

'Drinks are on me, outlander,' a grating voice said. 'That is, if you brought the money.'

The altmer turned his head to see a surprisingly scar-less, red-haired dunmer sit on the chair across the table. He hadn't been there three seconds ago, and for a moment the altmer thought that he might have teleported in. There was no smell of magic in the air, however, and he came to the conclusion that the mer was simply quick on his feet—and very quiet, too.

'I have,' the altmer said, softly patting the pouch at his belt.

It produced a muffled clinking sound, and the dunmer looked satisfied. 'Good.' He grabbed the flin and filled both of the cups to the brim. 'May our words be fruitful,' he said.

'Sun shine on you,' said the altmer. The dunmer gave him a strange look before he downed the flin in one careless gulp. The altmer managed to empty his own cup without choking. It wasn't so much the taste—it tasted great—but it was also stronger than anything he'd ever drank before. The dunmer watched him with an impassive, red-eyed gaze as he wiped his eyes. 'Strong stuff,' the altmer explained.

'Let's get to business,' the dunmer said, pouring both of them a second cup.

The altmer suspected that his watery eyes had just caused the dunmer to lose a lot of his respect for him. 'I am grateful for the opportunity to speak with you,' he started.

The dunmer bared his teeth in an unpleasant grin. 'Don't be, outlander. You've brought heavy imperial coin, and you'll trade it for nothing but words.'

'Some words are worth more than money can buy.'

'Yes,' said the dunmer, 'and I'm not going to speak any one of those to you.'

The altmer frowned. 'Very well,' he said. 'Let's introduce ourselves then. My name—

'You know for who I speak,' interrupted the Dunmer. 'I suspect for who you speak. Isn't that enough?'

'My name is Faënor,' the altmer said. He took a sip of his flin, taking care not to let anything he thought about it show on his face.

The dunmer sighed. 'It is expected that I lie about my name now, isn't it?' he said. There was a hint of a smile hovering around his lips. 'Very well. My name is Veloth. I am glad to know your fake name, Faënor.'

The altmer sighed. 'You dunmer have a strange sense of humor.'

Veloth shrugged. 'Perhaps,' he said. 'Perhaps not.' Then he straightened in his chair. 'You offered me money for answers, Faënor. Ask away.'

The altmer felt that he needed to tread very carefully here. The dunmer obviously followed a very different set of rules than he did. 'I want to know about the Nerevarine,' he said.

'Ah,' said Veloth. He didn't look surprised. 'All the outlanders want to know about him. You could have asked any mer on the street, and he would have been happy to answer you for a few coins. Why ask me? Why give me so much money for an answer that anyone could give?'

Normally, Faënor would have told the guy off—he was the one that had paid to ask the questions, after all. This time, however, he wasn't so sure. 'I want to know how strong he is.'

The dunmer obviously had expected such an answer. He slowly raised the cup of flin to his lips and took a sip, never taking his red-eyed gaze off the altmer's face. 'I have never fought him, sera, and I am glad for it.'

'Someone from your guild must have fought him in the past three years,' Faënor said. He himself knew of at least one instance from early in the Nerevarine's career. There had been a report from Fort Moonmoth about two and a half years ago—a report about a rogue agent who had killed off all the local Camonna Tong thugs. It was exactly the kind of thing associated with the Nerevarine… and the man had been in Balmora at that time.

One plus one was almost always two.

'He has killed several of ours,' Veloth said slowly, 'including two of our best. We have learned that it is best for us to stay out of his way.'

He looked intently at Faënor, who nodded. He got the hint. The Camonna Tong wouldn't help him to take out the Nerevarine—no matter how much money he might offer. 'Is he that dangerous?' he asked.

'He is,' said the dunmer. 'He slew Dagoth Ur underneath Red Mountain, at the heart of his power, and that is no mean trick.' Apparently he saw the skepticism in Faënor' eyes, for he continued: 'He killed the one who could not be defeated by the combined might of our three gods. That should say enough.'

'And then he proceeded to kill two of those gods,' Faënor said. He couldn't help himself. 'Not very god-like if you ask me.'

Veloth's eyes grew dark. 'You might say otherwise if you had ever been in the presence of one of them, outlander.'

The altmer shook his head. 'I've got a hard time believing all that. I mean, he is just one man—or well, a mer I guess. He might be tough, but he is made of flesh and bones like anyone else.'

'Keep believing that, outlander, and you'll find yourself dead soon.' Veloth tipped back the rest of his flin and poured yet another one. As an afterthought he also refilled the altmer's glass. 'He wields the weapons of Daedra,' the dunmer mused. 'They say he has a tower in the Ashlands, guarded by dwemer constructs and filled to the brim with the most ancient and powerful artifacts imaginable.'

'You're talking about him as if he's immortal,' Faënor said. He felt that he was treading on dangerous ground now, but he nevertheless pushed on. He needed to know. 'He isn't, you know. He's probably closer to something like—well, let's say, invulnerable. What I want to know is how invulnerable he is.'

Now the dunmer was playing with the candle that stood in the middle of the table, moving his long fingers slowly through the flame and then examining the soot stains on his ashy skin. 'He's invulnerable enough,' he murmured. 'Put the thought of killing him out of your head, outlander. He is the incarnation of Indoril Nerevar.'

'That's just superstition,' scoffed the altmer.

The dunmer shrugged. 'He wears the moon-and-star,' he said. 'If he truly is Nerevar incarnated, then you'll probably need three demigods to kill him, just like the last time—and he was wounded back then.' He looked up. 'Even if he isn't, you're dealing with more than you can handle. He's got a Daedric Prince backing him up.'

'What if I don't believe in those, either?' Faënor tried.

'Then you're impossibly dense,' Veloth said scathingly. 'They have temples to the Daedric Princes in Cyrodiil, too, don't they?'

Faënor just pressed his lips together. He wasn't sure how the dunmer knew that he was a Cyrodiil altmer, and he wasn't going to give him any more information.

After a short pause, Veloth moved on. 'Even if you do not believe in Azura, perhaps you'll believe that he has the support of the King, the Duke of Vvardenfell, and of the three Great Houses of Vvardenfell. That ought to be enough mortal support.' He took a long drink of his flin again, setting the cup back on the table with a dry tick. 'The Dark Brotherhood tried to take him out, you know. Not just once, but four times.'

This was the kind of information Faënor had been looking for. 'How effective were they?' the altmer inquired.

'He's still alive, isn't he?' The dunmer grinned humorlessly. 'The Dark Brotherhood has never really recovered, however. It appears that the Nerevarine was just a little bit angry about these attempts on his life. He followed the assassins' trail to the mainland, infiltrated their lair, and proceeded to wipe out half of their top members.' With a sudden, hissing sound, Veloth pinched out the flame, covering their table in shadow.

Faënor felt a shiver run down his spine. So it was true. The Dark Brotherhood of Morrowind had been decimated by the Nerevarine—and almost as an afterthought, too. 'This was after the death of Dagoth Ur?' he informed. 'If that's so, whoever ordered it must have paid them a fortune.'

Veloth's grin broadened. 'It did.'

'Who ordered it?'

'Classified,' said the dunmer. He narrowed his eyes and looked intently at the altmer. 'No use trying to buy it either. Information like that is worth more money than you can ever offer.'

Faënor shifted in his chair, putting his elbows on the table and gazing over his folded hands at the dark elf. 'I noticed that your guild wouldn't try to take him out.'

'You noticed right. He's on both the red list and the white list.'

'And that means…?'

Veloth sighed. 'Red means that the target is too dangerous to assassinate. White means that we can't take writs on them because they're on our list of allies.'

'Allies?' Faënor scoffed. 'You guys have no allies.'

'Orvas Dren himself whitelisted him,' said Veloth. 'Go to him if you have any objections.'

'I don't think I'd want to bother him,' Faënor said carefully. 'I'll take your word for it.'

'That's a healthy decision,' murmured the dunmer.

For a few moments, Faënor gazed quietly at the smoking candle. Two guilds of murderers down, he thought, one to go. 'Would the Morag Tong take out a writ on him?' he asked.

First the dunmer just looked very much surprised, but then he suddenly started to laugh. It was a coarse, barking sound, and he accompanied it by hitting the table with his fist a couple of times.

'What's so funny?' the altmer asked crossly.

'Heh, heh, heh,' the dunmer said. 'You outlanders have a funny sense of humor, you know.'

'I wouldn't call this funny.' Faënor said in a dangerous tone of voice. He had the vague feeling that the dunmer had been mocking him all this time, but now it was just getting offensive.

'Oh, but it is. Heh.' The mer shook his head and wiped one of his eyes with his sleeve. 'You guys just… barge into Morrowind and throw a heap of money on the table, thinking it will solve all your problems for you. That is very funny.' He shook his head. 'You outlanders are a crazy bunch.'

'Us outlanders?'

The dunmer made a broad gesture. 'Mostly you guys from Cyrodiil. You think you can buy anything. People from other places have more common sense.' He leaned forward, over the table. 'You've bought some words from me, and you've made me laugh, so I'm going to give you value for your money. Listen carefully.'

Faënor tensed just a bit, and the dunmer bared his teeth in an unpleasant smile. 'So ignorant,' he murmured. 'And so eager.'

'Get on with it,' the Altmer hissed. 'You're pressing your luck, you know. No words, no money.'

Veloth's smile didn't diminish. 'Next time you go to Morrowind, you should do some research beforehand. Learn about the ways of the land—the ways of the people, of the towns, and of the Houses. Learn who is important, who is strong, who is weak… and learn that you yourself are but an intruder. You are an ant in the wrong anthill.' The dunmer rose from his chair. 'You know what happens to those, right?'

'They die,' the altmer said flatly. Was this dunmer threatening him?

The dunmer nodded. 'And then they get eaten,' he said, without even blinking. 'I'll give you one extra bit of information for free. The Nerevarine is an important man, and he has rank in almost every guild and order in Morrowind. He's head of the Thieves' Guild, a Master of House Telvanni…'

'I know that already,' Faënor said irritably.

'He's also the Grand Master of the Morag Tong,' said Veloth.

Faënor felt his face twitch slightly, and inwardly he cursed himself for showing his surprise.

The dunmer sighed. He thoughtfully rapped the table with his knuckles. 'Some more advice, outlander,' he said. 'Get out of Morrowind. You should stay somewhere in Cyrodiil until you know enough to stay alive around here. In the meantime, you should write some letters to my master. He might have a business proposal for you—if your knowledge of us improves.'

'I'll consider it,' the altmer said coolly.

'You think I'm insulting you,' Veloth said. He smiled his mocking smile again. 'You might be right. You might not be. You don't know us, outlander.' He held out his hand, not questioning, but demanding. 'I know you, however, and that leaves me ad an advantage.'

Faënor scowled, but he still handed the dunmer a heavy pouch. 'You're a very unpleasant man to deal with,' he said.

'That's why you wanted to speak to me in the first place, isn't it?' Veloth said. He bowed his head. 'It was a pleasure dealing with you,' he murmured. Then he turned and walked away, roughly pushing his way through the rowdy crowd with his head held high as if he owned the place.

'I bet you enjoyed it,' the altmer muttered darkly at the dunmer's back. Then his gaze suddenly came to rest on something that gleamed at the dunmer's belt. He only saw it for a moment, just before its owner disappeared in the throng; but there was no mistaking it.

He wields the weapons of Daedra, the dunmer had said.

The Altmer whose name wasn't Faënor smiled just a little bit. 'And he isn't the only one in this godforsaken land who does,' he murmured. He now knew who he had spoken to, and that information was worth more gold than all the things the dunmer had told him.

His master had been right—the Camonna Tong was desperate indeed.