Chapter Six

First Orders


Seven chairs had been found and squeezed into Morgiah's study. As of yet, four were occupied.

In the first two: a young Breton couple, looking distinctly shy and intimidated. Plain leather satchels hung at their sides.

In the next: Crassius Curio, one arm draped languidly over the back of the chair beside him, where Nenya was idly readjusting her gauntlets.

The fifth chair had been momentarily vacated, its owner standing close to the fire, her golden eyes staring hard into the flames. This was not of the Suthay-Raht species of Khajiit seen so commonly in Morrowind, but the Ohmes-Raht found more widely in the west. She had travelled a long way.

Morgiah settled behind her desk. "Thank you all for coming," she said. "I would like to establish from the beginning that in coming here, you have agreed to the strictest discretion. Bar one, you were all recommended to me by the Nerevarine; I hope her trust in you has not been misplaced."

"I can assure you our mouths are sealed, your Highness," said Curio smoothly. "Although I believe our company is two short…?"

"They should be here by now," Nenya frowned. "I hope nothing's-"

She broke off as Morgiah stood up, something odd flashing behind her eyes.

"Come in," she said.

The company looked at the silent door, nonplussed. Sure enough, it was opened cautiously and two men stepped inside.

The first lifted off his Legion helmet respectfully to reveal a tired but honest Cyrodiilic face, hair cropped short in the military style. "Apologies, your Highness," he said deferentially. "There were delays at the gate-check."

Before Morgiah could answer, a blonde blur of domina and indoril careened past and threw itself into the arms of one very surprised Imperial Spymaster.

"Caius!"

It is far from easy to withstand the onslaught of a fully armoured Nord in the prime of her life; nonetheless, Caius managed to keep his ground with little more than a stumble. Though he looked slightly embarrassed by the scene, Morgiah noticed that he chose not to untangle himself from her embrace.

Nenya partially extricated herself from the confusion of limbs, her cheeks flushed with pleasure. "Hello, you old addict. Did they manage to keep you away from it, then?"

"Cheeky little-" Caius expostulated, pushing her off him and smacking her around the head with his gauntlet. Nenya barely blinked, the blow glancing off without a scratch.

"Skulls as thick as rocks, Nords," Caius grumbled. Nenya accepted the insult peaceably, her smile spreading to an infuriatingly cocky grin.

She turned to Morgiah, still smirking. "Your Highness, may I present Sergeant Caius Cosades?" Caius approached Morgiah and knelt awkwardly to kiss her hand, his chainmail clinking. Nenya indicated the second man, a Dunmer with whom she was enthusiastically shaking hands. "May I also present Ser Solon Gothren?"

Years of etiquette training was the only thing that kept Morgiah's face expressionless. Her stomach felt as if the bottom had dropped out of it. Ser Solon Gothren was shockingly beautiful, so much so that it made her physically lightheaded. His beauty was curiously androgynous; high cheekbones, long lashes, sultry and intense eyes, artfully tousled hair showed the faintest hint of red where the candlelight touched it...

She distrusted him at once. It is always wise to be wary of people who have a power over others, however it manifests itself. It was clear that she was not the only one affected; every eye in the room was turned in his direction.

"Welcome," she heard herself say. He crossed the room, knelt and kissed her hand. "Thank you, your Highness" he replied, his voice low and soft. He took the chair next to the Breton woman, who turned bright pink.

There was an awkward few moments as the silence in the room stretched to absurdity, before Morgiah gave herself a mental slap and took charge. "As I was saying, thank you all for coming," she declared, regaining her poise with an internal stab irritation. "For the benefit of those who do not know each other, I shall make the introductions."

"Ser Gothren and Sergeant Cosades we have just met. This lady and gentleman," she indicated the Breton couple, "are Miss Gwynabyth Yeomham and Mr Eadwyrd Greenhart, alchemists from Glenumbra in High Rock. Beside them is Ser Curio, Hlaalu Councillor; Nenya Sky-Song, the Nerevarine; and by the fire is Bomba 'Lurrina, an acquaintance of mine from some time ago in Wayrest. Welcome."

Various figures throughout the room nodded to each other.

"I have called you here to ask for your help. Recently the Queen Mother and I have become… concerned… about certain residents of the palace, and their involvement in current disturbing events. I am launching a personal investigation into the matter, and each of you has unique talents I hope will prove invaluable to the operation."

Between her fingers wound a silver chain, from which hung a pale green gem.

"I have compiled a list of preliminary orders for each of you." She shuffled some paper on the desk. "Miss Yeomham, Mr Greenhart. I have here the coroner's report of the deaths of King Llethan and his nephew, Talen Vandas, two years ago this month. I would like you to study them for symptoms of poison."

The Breton couple nodded, curiosity clear on their faces.

"Nenya and Bomba 'Lurrina, I would like you to investigate the recent conjecture concerning our holy Tribunal. Nenya will provide you with the details, Miss 'Lurrina. I would start by visiting the Vivec Temple."

Nenya gave the Khajiit a look which clearly meant that information would be exchanged later in private. Religion was always such a touchy subject.

"Ser Gothren, I am asking you to inquire into the Crown's connections with both the Dark Brotherhood and the Cammona Tong. I am not sure I can advise you where to begin, but I do not think you will need guidance from me in any case."

Solon turned his gaze on her, but she was ready this time. He nodded once.

"Finally, Ser Curio and Sergeant Cosades. Your task is less clear-cut. I am aware both of you have many contacts across the province, from the aristocracy to the underworld. I understand the irregularity of this request, but I would like you to put together a report of every peculiar unresolved event that may have taken place in the last few months. There is a link somewhere, and I am going to find it, no matter how many red herrings we have to wade through."

She realised that Caius and Crassius were surveying each other with obvious dislike, while Nenya glanced between them and bit her lip crossly. Morgiah momentarily considered asking if they were involved in some kind of disagreement – she wasn't prepared for her investigation to suffer for a petty squabble – but ultimately decided against it. They were professional men, and this job was more important than any personal grievances they might share.

"May I once again remind you that your presence here constitutes adherence to a strict contract of confidentiality," she continued. "No details of your allocated assignments, or those of your colleagues, are permitted to leave this room. Be assured that I will hear of it should they do so."

Silence followed this rather solemn pronouncement, broken only by a few murmurs of assent.

"Thank you all again," Morgiah repeated more pleasantly, sitting down and arranging her papers. "And now; do not let me detain you."

And so the meeting was over.


"Those guards are looking this way," Eadwyrd hissed nervously. "I really don't think we should be here…!"

Gwynabyth muttered under her breath, moving warily out of sight. "Are they still watching?"

Eadwyrd sighed. "No. Look, we did the report. If you ask me it was already a foregone concludsion; we were just brought in to confirm it independently. This whole thing is giving me the creeps. What do you expect to find here?"

"I don't know, Eadwyrd," Gwynabyth said testily, examining the small trade entrance to the palace North Wing. "I just think if she's paying us this much, we ought to earn it. It took about three minutes to identify those bittergreen symptoms. The Princess said strange robed figures have been getting into the palace this way, and I want to look for clues."

"I hope she appreciates your dedication," Eadwyrd muttered. Then his forehead wrinkled in a frown as he caught sight of a white glint near the path. "What's that?"

Stooping over, Gwynabyth beside him, he eased the object out from behind the raised flowerbed.

"A square bit of linen," Gwynabyth said curiously, taking it and turning it over. A piece of leaf was caught on the other side, which she brought it to her nose cautiously.

"Don't!" Eadwyrd said suddenly, knocking her hand away. Her eyes widened as she recognised the shape and colour of the leaf.

"Bittergreen… raw bittergreen!"

"Well, either you missed a successful career in detecting, or someone's cocky enough to discard obvious evidence," Eadwyrd said darkly. "It's all adding up rather fast, isn't it?

"A little too fast," Gwynabyth said softly, staring at the linen. "Maybe you're right, Eadwyrd. Maybe this is too big for us."

"I'll say. We came here to work on the tonic, not get tangled up in royal politics and murder cases."

"But we've already spent everything we have on ingredients." Gwynabyth bit her lip. "We need this salary to get back home and to finish the tonic. We've made such good progress. If it works out, we could be court alchemists in Glenumbra!"

"I know." Eadwyrd sighed. "I just… have a nasty feeling about this. We're contractually bound now, and we don't know what she'll ask us to do next. She isn't even our princess, for Mara's sake! We're Bretons; we're nothing to do with the Dunmer."

Gwynabyth hesitated. "She was a princess of Wayrest, though… I heard she left High Rock almost thirty years ago, but apparently she only arrived in Mournhold last month. I don't know where she was in between."

"Let's start walking back," Eadwyrd muttered, taking her arm and steering her away. "We look suspicious enough as it is. As for the Princess, I heard she married an Altmer king and only turned up here after he died. What does it matter? We don't belong to Morrowind, Summurset Isle or even Wayrest. It just… bothers me." They rounded a corner, the gates to Godreach coming into view. "The sooner we finish our work here the better. I miss Glenumbra," he confessed. "I miss your cottage and the kitchen-garden."

Gwynabyth's whole face lit up at the mention of home; she turned and smiled warmly at him. "We'll be back before you know it," she promised softly.

It was a little too long before Eadwyrd broke the gaze, reddening and looking at the flagstones. Gwynabyth, oblivious, began to sing Broken Diamonds under her breath.

The colour in Eadwyrd's cheeks didn't fade until they reached their lodgings, nor could he resist the occasional sneaked glance at his companion. But Gwynabyth didn't notice. She never did.


It was well that Nenya had retained her key, because there was no question of gaining an invitation to Vivec's Palace from the Archcanon now. So it was in the early hours of the morning that she and Bomba 'Lurrina swam through the canals to the southern base of the canton, making their way level by level to the top tier.

Despite being one of the least feline forms of Khajiit and some years past her prime, Bomba 'Lurrina was naturally adept at stealth and secrecy, her silhouette gliding smoothly up the walkways that surrounded the palace. The same could not be said of Nenya, who moved with the kind of mow-down efficiency of a sphere centurion. Bomba 'Lurrina winced at the clumping of heavy boots on the tier below; the reconciliation of 'Nenya' and 'Nerevarine' was so baffling that most people preferred not to think about it.

Finally reaching the pinnacle of the structure, the two women edged around to the elaborate front doors, Nenya rustling in her pockets for the key with painful loudness. Bomba 'Lurrina was fixed in a kind of mortified awe. There were guards at the bridge to the temple; it was impossible that they couldn't hear! But there they were, standing with their backs turned, completely oblivious to the ruckus going on behind them. It had to be Nenya. These things just seemed to work for her. Anyone else would have been a pincushion before they'd made it halfway up the side.

The key was located and the door opened, and the two women slipped inside. Nenya pulled off her helmet. Bomba 'Lurrina had insisted that wearing armour to swim the gap to the palace was beyond stupid, but her protests bounced off like an arrow on kagouti-hide. And the infuriating thing was, the armour hadn't made a difference anyway. The world just seemed to bend around Nenya.

The Khajiit sighed and turned her attention to the dais of Vivec. Immediately, her eyes narrowed and her posture stiffened. She gave a barely audible sniff, head turning this way and that.

"Looks just like before, except for a few more spiderwebs," Nenya commented. "I'm not entirely sure what her Highness expected us to find here. Are you all right?" she said, suddenly noticing her companion's tenseness.

"Husssh," Bomba 'Lurrina growled, lowering herself into a crouch. "Don't move. Don't twitch a muscle until I say."

Nenya froze with a grace quite unexpected of one who'd made enough noise to wake the dead during the ascent up the palace exterior.

Bomba 'Lurrina crawled silently to the dais, cold and dark without its torches. She circled the rim, head moving this way and that. Nenya could see her nose twitching sensitively. After a few minutes she stood up and nodded to herself, as if confirming an unspoken theory.

Nenya unfroze. "You've found something."

"Yes. Something strange, which changes matters entirely. A window into Aetherius has been opened in this room."

Nenya looked bemused. "Really? How can you tell?"

Bomba 'Lurrina fixed her with a steady gaze. "Once you have looked on Aetherius, you do not forget it, nor the marks it leaves on the mortal plane."

Nothing seemed to surprise Nenya. "Oh, I see. You've been there?"

"I- yes," replied the Khajiit, a little frustrated at the lack of awe this solemn pronouncement had evoked. "It is the universal source of magicka, the opposite plane to Oblivion. Are you familiar with the phenomenon known as the Warp in the West?"

"Ah. You were involved in that, were you?"

Bomba 'Lurrina gave up trying to be impressive. "Yes," she said with less pomp. "It was during that time that I met the Princess, in fact."

"Well I never. So you think Vivec left through Aetherius instead of the front door?"

Bomba 'Lurrina wrinkled her nose. "It's possible," she confirmed. "But did he leave… or was he taken?"

Nenya looked thoughtful.

"There's a chance Vivec could have created the window himself," Bomba 'Lurrina continued. "But if he's as far-gone as you say, I know of only one other person with enough control over Aetherius to do such a thing…" she stared at the dark dais. "I don't think the god's disappearance was the beginning of this," she said finally. "I think it's the latest in a chain of events longer than we realise. The mention of Aetherius makes me think of a particular name, and if she's involved, this has happened for a well-planned reason."

"She?"

"The one who sent me into Aetherius nineteen years ago."

Nenya chewed on that for a moment. Then- "Interesting," she said. "Maybe we should get this information to her Highness. Seems like it's quite important."

"Yes," said Bomba 'Lurrina. "It is."

They left the way they had come, and the guards didn't hear a thing, despite the faint echo of "Oh bugger" as Nenya dropped her helmet in the canal.


The Dark Brotherhood Operative held his lookout position by the Old City entrance with fierce devotion. He was newly promoted, pale and trembling with zealotry. His sharp eyes scanned the vast cavern of abandoned Old Mournhold, built over and forced underground long ago by new generations of buildings. His long fingers, disconcertingly quick and fluttering, travelled constantly inside his sleeves to check the concealed knives. He was not even aware of the gesture; it was automatic, almost a nervous twitch.

Manos Othrelath, the current Speaker, resided in the partially-ruined house behind his guard-post. He had been in power for almost two years, rising to his station after the suspicious death of his predecessor. The Operative was naturally not privy to the details, but he'd heard rumours of a contract made by King Helseth himself going horribly wrong. Some had whispered the word Nerevarine, but they quickly desisted when those responsible for the rumours were… silenced.

Since then, security near the main Sanctuary had been stepped up. They'd moved to a new location; part of the old Manor District, though the ground was less stable and riven with seams and fissures. They had also doubled their watch. Though he could not see them, the Operative knew at least three guards would be posted along the multiple tunnels leading away from the Sanctuary.

He decided to check them out of conscientiousness. He did this every so often, similar to those fluttering hands that felt by habit for his concealed weapons. Moving a few steps from his post, he peered round the corner of the nearest tunnel.

It was empty.

He took a couple more steps, assuming the guard was a little further round the bend. Still nothing.

Frowning, he debated what to do. He was required to stay at his post religiously, and was loath to disobey orders. But if another guard was absent…

He decided to inform a superior. He had almost made it back to his watchpoint when a soft click came from his right, and an excruciating pain ripped through his throat. He tried to shout, but through the haze of horrified agony he realised there was something protruding from his neck that should not be there, and he was voiceless. The front of his armour was warm and sticky and wet.

The Operative sank to the floor. His world went dark.

Solon Gothren stepped out from a nook of rock and approached the body. Retrieving his crossbow bolt, cleaning and replacing it in his quiver, he swiftly rolled the Operative's corpse into one of the many fissures where it was immediately lost to shadow. Stowing his crossbow on his back, he turned to examine the heavy locked door of the Sanctuary. It looked prone to dramatic creakings.

He knelt near the base of the frame, a strand of dark hair falling over his eyes. After moment's examination of the hinges, he produced a small screwdriver and with artist's hands began to ease loose the fastenings. The door shifted with a small grating sound.

Solon whipped round to face the cavern, eyes scanning the tunnel entrances, but no guards appeared to investigate the minute noise. He turned his attention back to the door, pocketing the screwdriver and replacing it with a lockpick. A few seconds later it swung slowly inward, silent on its loosened hinges.

Solon immediately stepped inside, shut the door and melted into the shadows of the hallway beyond – not a moment too soon, as a Dark Brotherhood assassin appeared from an adjacent corridor and walked the length of the hall before disappearing.

Solon kept perfectly still as he crouched in the darkness, crossbow unreached-for. The assassin had been in easy range, but this was not a killing mission. The two guards outside had been necessary, and though he had made use of the chasms to ensure their bodies would not be found, any disappearance would make the Brotherhood suspicious. The key was to get in and out without them ever realising he'd been there. That was the mark of a good stealth artist.

The problem was, the information he needed for Morgiah was inside someone's head, and it is impossible to get in and out of a person without them realising you've been there.

Or was it…?

Solon thought he had found a way, but it would be risky. The proof of the pudding, as some said, would be in the eating.

And what a pudding, he thought. What a pudding.

He began to move, skirting the walls and avoiding the torches. Two assassins passed him unseeingly, but the deeper he got the harder it would be to escape. He was too far from the main door to rely on a last-minute sprint, although admittedly that was only useful in the event of getting caught. Solon was not someone who got caught.

His various forays into the underworld meant he had become familiar with a few Dark Brotherhood Sanctuaries in his time, albeit not this particular one. Subsequently he had some idea of their common blueprint, and headed to the back of the building. The Speaker's room would not be in the centre: too predictable. It would be on one side. He picked the left and turned a corner, but was immediately forced behind a heavily carved table as an assassin passed by holding an empty tray.

A tray… no-one in the Brotherhood hierarchy would be waited on except for the Speakers. He must be close. He crept round the bend.

He was met by the end of a corridor in which a door stood ajar. Through the crack he glimpsed a short alcove leading to a richly decorated chamber. The room must turn a corner before opening out, which was useful as it gave him a wall to wait behind.

He slipped through the doorway into the creamy glow of the lamp-lit Master Chamber.

Solon could hear someone moving beyond the alcove, but it seemed muffled and removed. There was a small writing-table next to his hiding-place; crouching behind it, he peered cautiously into the main room. It was larger than he expected, and at the far end another door opened onto a small study, equipped with desk, chair and bookshelf. Sitting at the desk was the Mournhold Speaker himself, Manos Othrelath.

Silent as a cat, Solon ventured further. Outside the study stood another little table bearing a goblet of flin, courtesy of the tray-carrying assassin. It was perfect.

They'd made it so easy for him!

Moving so as to position the door between himself and the Speaker, Solon produced a tiny phial from his sleeve and held it up to the light. Its contents were thin and colourless. Carefully approaching the table, he measured three drops into the goblet before withdrawing to wait.

Solon was unlike other mages in one very important way. He used magic in conjunction with something just as powerful – the study of behaviour. The key to Solon's success was his conviction that getting inside people's heads wasn't merely interesting; it made you unbeatable. The phial of potion nestling inside his sleeve was the crowning glory of his education.

Solon had once been witness to an event which revealed a very interesting fact: it is impossible to lie while sleeptalking. The mind's level of consciousness in shallow sleep carries with it the inability to utilise devices such as humour or deception. If you can coax a sleeping person to respond without waking, they will truthfully answer anything you ask. The problem was that that was precisely the difficulty – keeping a person at such a specific level without either waking them or letting them drift into deeper unconsciousness.

That was where Solon's potion came in. A very, very fine-tuned sleeping draught, tested and perfected over a number of years into the finished product that now lay innocently in the goblet of flin.

At that moment the Speaker pushed back his chair and strode into the main chamber, bringing a handful of papers with him. For an instant Solon thought he might head straight for the door, but halfway there he turned – yes, he was reaching for the goblet! Lifting it to his lips, he knocked back the contents in one gulp and set the cup back onto the table.

He turned to the door, then put a hand to his head. He swayed. He fell.

Like an adder Solon was there, catching the semi-conscious man and lying him on the couch. A spark of jubilation ignited within him. Like a charm…!

The Speaker was murmuring. Solon leant down, his nose and inch from the mer's face. "Hello Manos," he said softly, careful to keep his tone low and neutral. The potion had worked, but he didn't want to push it.

"Hello," mumbled the Speaker. His eyes were closed, but Solon could see flickering behind the lids. His level of consciousness seemed to be perfect.

"What are those papers, Manos? A report for his Majesty the King?"

"'S," slurred the Speaker. Solon's face was a mask, but deep down in his stomach he grinned like a wolf. "Intell'gence reports. Spies stationed all through the city, l'ke he asked. Evr'where covered, even the slums."

"And the palace?"

"N't there. T' risky."

So, Morgiah's meetings ought to be safe so far.

"What do you know of his Majesty's connections to the Cammona Tong, Manos? Have they got spies in the city too?"

Manos frowned in his semi-sleep. "Place's riddled wi'em. H'lsth pracly controls th'whole org'nisation. Heard Dren's gn funny…"

This was news to Solon. "Gone funny? Funny how?"

"Lu'kin for some mer at th' plantation a coupl'a weeks ago. B'sessed with him. W'nts to find him."

Solon's eyes widened.

"This mer… does he have a name?"

"D'no," Manos muttered fitfully. "Ganos… Galos, maybe…?"

Solon's previous triumph faded, replaced by gnawing anxiety. This was not good news. Manos' increasingly fretful movements, however, brought him back to the task at hand. He didn't have much time.

"Manos," he said firmly. "Are there as many Cammona Tong spies working for Helseth as there are Dark Brotherhood?"

"More. Scum."

"Are they in the Palace?"

"D'nt think so. Wouldn't dare…"

"But everywhere else?"

"N't a single tavern they havn't g't."

Solon knew that was his lot. The potion would not buy him much more time, and there was still something else he had to do before the Speaker woke. Lifting the unresisting body, Solon placed him on the floor as if he'd fainted. Then, taking a small cloth pad from a pouch at his waist, he wiped the inside of the goblet to remove all traces of potion with the last of the flin. The mark of a stealth-artist – no-one had been there.

He slipped out the door like a breath of wind. He was long-gone by the time the Speaker groggily awoke with the half-gone memory of a very strange dream.


The study was not the largest of rooms, but the two men in it were sitting as far apart as was humanly achievable.

Caius and Crassius were chiefly sorting through letters. They had discreetly sent off as many as possible a few days ago, and were now sifting through the replies. Morgiah had been correct in assuming that their combined contacts amounted to most of Morrowind's aristocratic and underworld population.

Crassius stopped on one sheaf of paper for rather a long time, his eyes scanning the document. "This is interesting, sergeant, very interesting. Apparently black-robed figures have been spotted rather frequently around Tel Fyr in the last few months. Ser Fyr himself has not been so forthcoming, however. No-one's had a wink of him."

"We should report that to the Princess," Caius said, his voice clipped and formal. "There's some information about several missing people here as well, including a Tulius Cicero – the name seems familiar, although I can't place it."

Crassius discarded the sheaf of paper and focused his attention on Caius, an unpleasant grin devouring his face.

"So, sergeant. Enjoying your triumphant return to Vvardenfell?"

"Yes, thank you," Caius said stiffly, determinedly immersing himself in the pile of envelopes.

"Nice to see old friends again…"

"Lovely," said Caius through gritted teeth, now glaring at a letter grabbed at random.

"And what a welcome your little Nordic charge gave you! Pleased to see her, were you?"

Caius burned a hole in the parchment, stubbornly keeping up the pretence of reading.

"Of course she and I bump into each other so often, being prominent members of House Hlaalu. Such a shame you don't get to see her as much as I do. But then, I suppose you had to sort out your little addiction problem before you were fit to be around ladies again. Sweet tooth, eh!" Even Crassius' laugh sounded like a smirk. "Still, decent of her not to hold it against you."

"Decent people tend to do that," Caius spat before he could help himself, the letter crumpling in his hand.

"Oh, she's certainly decent, I'll give you that. Take, for example, my conditions on becoming her sponsor for House Hlaalu. She was so generous with the terms."

Caius was on his feet before he knew he'd moved, dagger drawn. He was shaking.

"She told me all about your conditions for naming her Hortator, you filthy…"

Crassius seemed unperturbed by the drawn blade. "Honey-like, speaking of your sweet tooth," he mused, as if he were commenting on nothing more incriminating than a cake recipe. "Must be all that mead Nords drink."

Caius's throat seemed to have shrunk; he found it hard to force the words out. "You'd never have dared try a stunt like that if I'd still been on Vvardenfell. She'd have told me right away – I'd have been down here before you knew what was happening, you smug–"

"Would she, though?" Crassius asked mildly. "She did mention you could be rather brusque. Perhaps she didn't feel she could confide in you at all. Shame, really, considering her predicament… estranged from her homeland… entombed in an Imperial prison… thrust into the venomous politics of an alien country… Such a pity you couldn't have offered some much-needed comfort. Lucky, really, that I was on hand to take care of things."

Caius tried to regulate his breathing, Crassius' heavy-handed implications notwithstanding. The last thing he wanted was to let this smug piece of carrion think he was hitting home. "It never went that far, you idiot. Do you think I'm stupid? Have you seen that hammer she drags about? She could flatten you without breaking a sweat."

Crassius laughed jovially, the sound making Caius want to throw him out of the window. "My dear man, I doubt Molag Bal himself could force Nenya against her will. What makes you think she wasn't perfectly keen?"

Don't rise. "Liar."

"Am I," the councillor murmured. "Am I." He threw and amused look at Caius' hand, balled into fist around the hilt of his dagger. Shrugging, he picked up a stack of documents and walked to the door. As he brushed lightly by, Caius' fantasised grabbing him, choking him, smashing his fists into his mouth over and over again, thrashing and beating and throttling until that smug face was running with blood, nose crushed beyond repair, eyes weeping red tears, teeth splintered, lips split and streaming…

He stood quietly and did nothing as Crassius passed unhindered, shutting the door calmly behind him. Cauis let out a long breath.

He couldn't lay a finger on him, of course. Morgiah needed Crassius and his influence. Caius knew that beneath the self-satisfied smirk and lecherous comments lay a political powerhouse, running his leading House with faultless efficiency and dispatching his enemies with the ease of posting a letter.

In short, Caius was aware that Crassius Curio was indispensable. But that didn't mean he had to like the bastard.


The fire was the only illumination in the Morgiah's study. The two women sat by the hearth, one drawing slowly on a hookah. Sweet, luxurious smoke obscured the candelabra and made the ceiling hazy.

"So," said Morgiah.

Bomba 'Lurrina regarded her with golden eyes, fingering the skooma pipe almost lovingly. "So," she echoed.

"He poisoned King Llethan and Talen Vandas, I am sure of it," Morgiah said quietly, looking at Gwynabyth and Eadwyrd's report. "And bittergreen traces were found on a piece of scrap linen outside the North Wing trade entrance, where black-robed figures have been seen in the night. I wish I was more surprised."

"So do I."

Morgiah's glance reminded her that while people may speak ill of their own families, an outsider rarely has the same privilege. Bomba 'Lurrina looked contrite.

"They are curiously gifted alchemists, the young couple," she remarked to skate over the moment. "Useful they happened to be passing through. Are they married?"

"No. They are colleagues, or so the Nerevarine tells me."

Bomba 'Lurrina drew on the hookah, a smile on her lips.

"Curio and Cosades' compilation is interesting," Morgiah went on, picking up the second bundle of papers. "Black-robes sighted in scattered locations. A number of missing people. Strange goings-on at Tel Fyr. Surely Divayth Fyr wouldn't be involved with Helseth…? I thought him quite the recluse."

"Perhaps he's not," said the Khajiit. Her red mane of hair glinted in the firelight. "There are any number of places he could be other than Tel Fyr. But you would know your countrymen better than I."

"On the subject of you, I am sure your discoveries in the Palace of Vivec put a certain name in your mind."

Bomba 'Lurrina breathed out a mouthful of sweet smoke. "We are of the same thought. Nulfaga."

"It may be a shot in the dark, but she's the only one who connects the dots to Aetherius. You're right, this goes deeper than we thought." Morgiah looked thoughtful. "And then, of course, there are Ser Gothren's findings…"

"Ah, yes!" Bomba 'Lurrina smiled again. "The most beautiful prince of darkness. I wonder how often he's used his extraordinary appearance to his advantage?"

"A great deal, I would think," said Morgiah, her voice clipped. "Of all our recruits, I mislike him the most. I have no idea what he is thinking; I've no doubt he's perfected the art. He's dangerous. If Nenya hadn't recommended him, I don't think I'd have gone near him for any price."

"But she did… he's obviously out for himself and himself alone, but who isn't? He'll find you your answers. Or some, at least."

"He's already found out a lot. He confirmed what I've suspected for a long time – Helseth has almost full control over the Cammona Tong, and much influence in the Mournhold sect of the Dark Brotherhood. Remarkable, considering both sides are in bitter feud. Which means we must be even more cautious; there are spies everywhere."

"He didn't anticipate you," Bomba 'Lurrina declared softly.

She watched the thoughts marshalling behind the Princess's eyes, but could not read their language. Ser Gothren was not the only one who had honed the art of mask-making to perfection. Bomba 'Lurrina had come to admire Morgiah throughout their sporadic acquaintance, but felt much the same about her as the Princess felt about Solon.

"You mean Helseth," Morgiah said calmly.

"Yes. I believe that when he stopped seeing you as a contender for the Wayrest throne, he stopped seeing you altogether."

This was perilous ground to tread, she knew. The Dunmer royals had a very swift and non-reversible kind of answer to this sort of boldness. But cats are nothing if not curious…

"When you left for Firsthold, you were a blank space in his mind which was taken over by more and more ambition. He didn't have room for you when you returned; that was why it was such a shock, though he didn't show it."

Morgiah was silent. She had come to these conclusions a long time ago.

"Why did you marry King Reman, your Highness?"

Morgiah's eyes bored into hers. "There were many reasons," she said.

"Was love one of them?"

Morgiah stood, suddenly quite frightening. The fireplace outlined her silhouette. "You push me, Bomba. You know more of these reasons than you imply. Do you think I have forgotten the letter you delivered as your first duty to me, nineteen years ago? I know you read it, not to mention the reply. I didn't expect you not to, but I thought it was a fair price for setting you up as Champion of the Bay. You know at least one of the reasons."

"I know at least one of Reman's," Bomba 'Lurrina returned, something of a purr in her throaty voice. "You were the only one who could let him speak to his dead son."

For a moment, she thought Morgiah would kill her on the spot. Surely she had gone too far.

But the Princess sat down again, slowly.

"Not the only one," she said.

"No, of course…" Bomba 'Lurrina amended. "After all, every King comes to Worms in the end…"

The room suddenly felt cold.

Morgiah spoke very, very softly. "I know now that Helseth is monitoring activity in Mournhold – the place is crawling with spies. It is imperative that he suspects nothing. You made the journey to Scourg Barrow for me once, Bomba. I am asking you to do it again."

The Khajiit's eyes widened. Though she had half expected it, it was still a shock.

"Our normal method of communication has unfortunately failed me this past week. If there is to be any magical activity, it must be from… his end, not mine."

Something flashed in her fingers. Bomba 'Lurrina was familiar with the green gem, but it took a moment for her to realise that this was different – a blue one.

"I am sure you understand what this is for. Take it to him. Bring Nenya with you; explain on the way. It will be a long trip."

"I know it well," said Bomba 'Lurrina wryly.

The ghost of a smile passed over the Princess's face. "I am sorry to summon you here, only to send you immediately back. I know the Dragontail Mountains aren't the pleasantest of places. I will cover the cost of your travel expenses."

"Thank you."

When the Khajiit had gone, Morgiah remained in her chair and stared at the fire. The green gem was in her hand, and she held it so tightly her knuckles were white.


A/N: I apologise for the length of this chapter. I toyed endlessly with the idea of splitting it into two, but I decided in the end that it interrupted the flow. I set all the characters up in Chapter 4 - I was aiming to mirror the format in this one, dealing with them each in turn.

Firstly, sorry for making Solon a shameless pretty-boy. But I thought it might be interesting - we've seen plenty of femme fatales, how about an homme fatale for once? I also wanted to make his beauty trans-gender and almost holy, because it's so at odds with his criminal lifestyle. He does have morals, but you'll have a hell of a time working them out from that perfect emotionless face. The sleep-talk potion is also entirely my own idea and something I'm rather proud of. I found out that sleep-talking trick from my friend Emily years ago - apparently her sister tried at a sleepover one night and it worked like a charm. I also learned a few things about sleep levels in my Psychology A Level class, which was fascinating.

Bomba is one of the only characters you will not find anywhere in the games, and her presence is more author-service than anything - she was the player-character I used to complete Daggerfall years ago, and I'm very fond of her. I named her Bombalurina, being a bit mad about CATS at the time, and tweaked the name so it fit in better with Khajiit etymology. I'd also like to say for the record that she gave the Totem to the Underking, although Gortwog was her second choice. Aaaaaand the non-Daggerfall players have lost me here... But anyhow, I put Bomba and Nenya together because I loved the idea of my old and new avatars reacting to each other.

I also like the idea of Caius developing a sort of gruff fondness for his Nerevarine pupil. I can imagine him getting all outraged and protective over the Crassius Curio thing - which, by the way, I just HAD to put in. Come on, the official forums imploded with freaked-out teenage boys over that guy.

NB: Morgiah's line "Do not let me detain you" is a shout-out to Terry Pratchett's Lord Vetinari, who says it often in a delightfully snarky manner.

I have that uneasy feeling that a university lecturer must get when they look up from their last half-hour of notes and realise not only is no-one listening, but the students have actually left twenty minutes ago...

I'm going now. Thank you all, you're like pies on sticks. Much love!

xxx