How convenient to be blind for the first few moments. Digesting the sound and smell of this place is much easier to do in the dark, as opposed to all once with the added input of sight. First, there's the floor, which is vibrating so hard that I can feel the bumps in the metal through my shoes. All around I can feel belts turning in the walls, a layered chorus of rattles, creaks, moans and other mechanical noises. Every time I turn my head, one emanation shifts in volume and space, its prominence passing on to some other sound. In a few minutes, I'll begin to discern the slow heartbeat of the place, the pattern by which the hidden steam-powered components fade into one another, with the periodic screeching of a damaged gear keeping time between cycles. This is impossible. Ho can it all still be running? Wasn't it all built two thousand years ago?
And then my eyes are good for the scattering of candles on the grotto floor below, the short section of light-emitting pipes on the walls. We're standing on a miniature version of the foyada bridge outside, but this one projects out into a rough cavern only to be roughly truncated by a pile of stone debris. So it's ruin after all. And the machines are still running.
Where before I was so conscious of my companion's presence, now she is gone. Todwendy has to stir from motionlessness and touch my shoulder before becoming palpable again. Steel glitters in the darkness, and she closes my fingers around the haft of the spear. Somehow it focuses my attention forward to the grey figure seated at the end of the bridge. Half illuminated by a mouldering pile of trama root shavings, the sentry is wearing armor more ragged than Snowy's, a slender warhammer at his feet. The noise in here has covered up our entrance.
Stay, Todwendy communicates in that voiceless way of hers. Then she flows into a flickering grey shape, to merge with the bridge's railing and pad forward on shadowy feet. It's only two dozen paces, but she still covers the ground fast enough for me to blink in surprise. Her silhouette blends with the crouching glint of the guard, there is a click, and the tinny crunch of his breastplate hitting the stone floor. I rush forward to the edge of the bridge, anxious to distinguish Towendy's face from the lethal blur in the darkness. I know that the sound won't travel far in here, but I can still hear my feet clanking against the metal platform, while hers never did. In the orange half-light of the flameless wire-and-pipe lamps, I see her smile.
"Paralysis charm," she whispers, pulling a lacquered wooden mask from the smuggler's stony face. And Sai save us, his eyes are open, angry and terrified.
Todwendy and I peer over the railing. The floor of the cavern sists perhaps thirty feet below is, jumbled with broken-up floor tiles. A cave-in provides a ramp made of boulders, leading down to a well-lit passageway, all of metal. Someone is pacing the hallway, out of sight around the corner where the footfalls make coppery echoes. In the other direction, partly beneath the entrance platform, stands a sort of tiered gallery, radiating soft, colored light. The lower levels looks a little like a Leyawiin porch done by Dwarves, with doors set into the walls and thick pillar supporting a mezzanine-like structure. Actually, the platform above is a near-replica of the platform below, open to the cavern interior and accessed by more of those bronzed doors.
And up top there, leaning back on a three-legged Dwemer stool with his feet propped up on an immense iron desk, is a third smuggler. This one's surrounded by bulging sacks and a few barrels made from that stringy, gristly wood that only comes from Vvardenfell. So if Hasphat is to be believed, that leaves nine more of these fellows, somewhere around here. Shezarr's Shit, what do you do with eleven angry cutthroats? Todwendy inspires awe and confidence only to a point. I'll just have to hope that her reaction upon hearing about the Fighters Guild drillmaster was the glimmerings of a plan.
"Can you knock them all out with that mask of your?" This place demands more than a whisper.
"Not unless they are every one as dim as Snowy."
"Let's hope he doesn't come charging in any time soon."
"Aye. I told him to count to one thousand and come through the doors quietly. A whistle will bring him down below. That's where we're headed. Stay away from that hallway and walk towards the doors, quietly but naturally. Ready to move?"
We pick our way down the treacherous stepping-stone ramp, wary of loose pebbles and gaps between shadows. I try to walk in Todwendy's footsteps exactly, curling up my toes inside my shoes to cling to slanted rock faces. Several times I have to catch myself with the staff, and receive a sharp look as the sound reverberates around Arky's interior. The smuggler's footsteps have receded. So now there's only the man lounging on the floor above. I spot the soft glow of a Skooma pipe cradled in the fingers of his dangling left hand. That could be good or bad.
I can't help but hiss with alarm as Todwendy stands fully upright and moves towards the well-lit galley. She walks with surety, holding her midsection and chin high as if she's the smugglers' landlord. Her feet, though, flit across the floor toe-to-heel. A duchess above, a burglar below. Following her as best I can, I move with a similar lack of visual stealth, but also with the air of an adulteress on a penance march. An adulteress with a spear. Todwendy motions for me to flip it upside down down. The sharp tip makes less noise on the floor, and maybe someone will mistake it for a walking stick. Staff or not, we make the lower set of doors without being challenged from above. Threading through a grouping of iron kegs, the next door (she appears to choose at random but likely does not) requires little deciphering.
Voices are immediately audible in the corridor beyond. Todwendy pauses for the time it takes to drawn four long breaths and counts the different speakers up ahead, ticking them off on her fingers. And then before I can think to object, the crazy raga strides round the nearest corner into full view of a populated room. Three more men dressed in the lighter undergarments of ashlands gear, sweating in a square chamber with a grating for a floor. The orc—sitting on a miscellaneous piece of Dwemeri equipment and re-braiding his hair—glances at us as we come in. My mouth drops open as he seems to disregard us. Then the thought pushes through his orichalcum skull, he jerks, snaps his back up for a second look—
"Where's Crito?" Todwendy's imperious voice pre-empts the uproar of our arrival. "We have business."
The room breaks into sudden motion, the two specimens in back lungering for coppery gears and heavy flagons, as they don't seem to have weapons at hand. One of them misjudges and rams his shoulder into a spinning hoop, dislodging the belt that kept the contraption running. The orc has a knife, though. A big knife.
"Shor's blood! Where the hell did you come from!"
"I told you. I have business with Crito. Where is he?"
"How did—what have you done with Dathman?"
"Your sentry? The idiot is sleeping at his post. Did you think you were the only ragpickers who know how to open the doors? Amateurs like you?" She lets the word hang in the air for a moment, daring the stock-still smugglers to mistake her identity. A fatal mistake, her eyes warned. "Now go get Crito."
"Who are you two bints?"
"That's for Crito to hear. I am losing patience."
The Nord on the right nods at his bruised companion, who pounds out of sight down the hall. And then a wave of his hand.
"Idhdean, go fetch Ruuz and the others from down at the observatory dig and bring them here." Slowly, we altogether realize that the only path to the observatory is through Todwendy. She shakes her head in a solemn, murderous way, and the orc backs down.
Mercifully, it is only moments before feet sound on stairs and Boss Crito storms into the room. A hairless Cyrodil with deep-set eyes, he is clutching an axe with a look that says blood.
"Crito!" Once again, she seizes control of the room. "My name is Tovenda. I have a message from Orvas Dren." The last name—familiar somehow—she pronounces with such aggressive clarity that everyone stays still, and no one speaks.
No one except Crito, that is. He marches his scowling face up to Todwendy (who doesn't even blink), halting a fingerlength from her nose.
"Dren," he repeats with derision. "And I supposed you expect me to believe that now they let bitch raga work for the Camonna Tong?"
Thanks be to Stendarr, I somehow didn't squeal when she whipped her hand back and slapped him. It happened so fast that by the time he felt the pain, her arms were idle again at her sides, nowhere near a weapon, and the next words were already leaving her lips.
"What nonsense do you speak of? I did not name the Tong. I spoke only of my master Orvas Dren, Councilor of House Hlaalu, and do not like what I hear suggested of him."
"You—"
"Need I remind you of the respect due to that name?" Everyone else in the room has produced weapons now, but they hold them uncertainly, and Crito takes a step back.
"And how..." She cuts him off with a clench of her raised fist.
"May I present Naleva Vahari, Matron of the Morag Tong. She has come at the courteous request of my master to officiate and notarize our dealing before the judgment of the voidwaters. Our lives are forfeit to her justice should we prove faithless."
Matron! Of the Morag Tong? Suspicion and unease mingle in Crito's face, together forming confusion.
"Alright then, Tavenda, speak your piece. But you can tell Dren that I don't like being sent someone with no manners, and being expected to kowtow to someone no one has ever heard of." He squints. "Any of you boys ever heard of Tavenda?" A chorus of 'no.' "And that silent sister of your look like no 'agtong Matron I've ever seen."
"If Dren had thought to negotiate trade with you," she says softly, "he would have summoned you to a meeting with a business associate of proper station. If he sought to claim his rights from you, he would have sent delegation capable of enforcing his decision. In this case, however," she continues, her tone disarming the tension raised by her preceding sentence, "he has sent only me, to amicably resolve a relatively minor issue. In fact, I have come to procure a single item, a trifle, really. He expects you to treat with me as a sign of your respect for him, in order to win his favor."
"A single item."
"Be so good as to have someone fetch the puzzle box you found, so that I know I am not wasting our time." This gets her a curious look from Crito. "You have nowhere civilized to sit in here, so let us retire to the landing outside and discuss terms."
She doesn't even wait for him to acquiesce, and I am by now suitably practiced in anticipating her movements that we turn in unison. Back out on the porch that opens into the main cavern, Todwendy seats herself at a (heavily pillaged) desk and awaits Crito's oncoming footsteps. A faint smile on her face and a glance at the ceiling tells me that Granius is waiting in the entranceway above.
The boss arrived with his orc and sits down on a Dwemer storage canister. I stay standing, paired with the green bodyguard.
"As you requested, the puzzle box is on its way. Why exactly you—"
"Permit me to explain," she cuts in. "I understand that a member of the Fighters Guild attempted to purchase it recently."
"Aye, that he did. He wouldn't offer me the courtesy of a fair price, nor the guarantees needed in such a position."
"Your refusal has saved Dren—and myself—a good deal of trouble. Antabolis is under the command of the Balmora branch, but gets on better with the likes of the Ald-ruhn chapter. His colleagues there do not see eye-to-eye with our friend Eydis Fire-eye."
"Not the Tong, you're from, eh?" A sarcastic, toothy grin.
"I do not know why Antabolis sought the puzzle box at the same time as my master, but it is not important. He could not be relied upon to cooperate."
The Nord reappears, and the cube trapped inside his big paw fits the description handily. Crito accepts the bauble, waves his subordinate off, then scrutinizes it.
"This ugly little thing? That's what you want? I couldn't believe it when Antabolis got so worked up over it either." Todwendy shoots me an inquiring glance, and I nod in affirmation. "Say, this isn't worth thousands or anything, is it?"
"Not to you. It has no market value even to a scholar or collector, unless they are familiar with its specific purpose. It resembles a child's toy, does it not?"
Crito rests his hand on his knee and looks up, eyes full of calm and dignified avarice.
"So, Tavenda. You mentioned terms."
"Just so. For the trifle, Dren is willing to offer you three times Antabolis' price, sight unseen." Her voice is marked by boredom, at first. "Alternately, he sees this serendipitous occasion as a symbol of better things to come, and invites you to come as his guest to Ascadia. There is much to discuss concerning future transactions, larger ones that will require your specific set of skills."
"We'll take the money," Crito spits out abruptly.
Todwendy's full lips become a thin line.
"Dren instructed me to view the gift of the puzzle box as a sign of your respect, a guest-offering to his villa in the Isles, a down payment on your future partnership, if you will."
"Oh, we respect him, alright, but even a man of Dren's stature knows that you can't expect a man to work for you, without he sees a bit of coin first. And three times Antabolis' pitiful coinpurse is nothing to your bossman. I have need of respect too, you know."
"I certainly see the reason in your request, but my master is a proud man. I cannot guarantee that his pleasure with this transaction will survive untarnished. Additionally, my Morag Tong companion was prepared to bind our agreement in blood, and has nothing to contribute to a simple purchase of the item. You may insult her office as well."
Crito looks me in the eye.
"Your pardon, milady Nahari, I mean no offense. I never asked you to come to my place of business, nor looked for this deal, so you'll understand." Shit, I know there is something I should be doing to help here, some devastating answer that my she would put through my lips if she could. "Tavenda, I need the money, unless your master can buy me half a guar caravan to move my goods off this rock."
Todwendy sighs.
"Very well, Crito. It is a disappointment for me personally, but I will not press the issue further. What did Antabolis offer?"
"Five 'undred."
Damn.
"Fifteen hundred drakes, then."
Todwendy reaches into the satchel at her side with an unconcerned manner, and then two things happen at once. Or maybe not at once. But so close on each other's heels that I never will know which came first. If I had to guess, I would say that raising her fingers to her lips and letting out an earsplitting whistle that cut through the factory noise like a thunderbolt was the second thing that she did. Because the other thing she did was dart her blade from its sheath and whip it through the air in a burst of orange light. And the light passed through Crito's upper thigh at fingerswidth depth, returning to lash at his hand so great red canyons opened up in his palm, and the puzzle box clattered to the floor.
Then the orc bellowed almost as loud as her whistle and lunged, but Naleva's braced spear caught him full in the chest. Her newly-sharpened blade cut through the sturdy ashproof fabric like it wasn't there, continuing on to dive into the gulf between his inflated pectoral muscles. Then both men were shrieking and thrashing about, a cacophony of overturning barrels and mortified echoes, the two of them outdoing each other with fountains of lifesblood. Todwendy scooped up the puzzle box and drew Naleva into the shadows by the cavern walls. Four smugglers from deeper in the gallery came rushing onto the platform, weapons ready, only to see Granius' armored form charging towards them. They did not notice the sudden confusion on his face when running to meet the old brigand, and the fivesome's steely collision lay about the cavern with echoes as we passed the swirl of fighting men on our way towards the surface. Mounting the ramp, prize in hand, the rest of Arkngthand's complement emerged from their work on the lower levels, pausing to consider the fleeing women at left, and the general melee at right. Granius had summoned a skeletal minion from the aether, and now struck out at his former partners with steel and spell. Two thrusts of Naleva's bladed staff discouraged pursuit for a moment, and although a pair of crossbow bolts ripped past in the darkness, Todwendy was able to find the interior door controls. As the globe portal shut behind them and the ashstorm blew harder, they half-ran half-slid down the massif towards the bridge, beyond which no one ventured to pursue them.
For the first few miles, with the ashstorm raging, I was almost giddy. We ran and didn't stop running, with the wind propelling us from behind and our eyes clear. On the ridge above Fort Moonmoth, the mountain wind hit the sweeter air of Odai and the Isles, funneling the blight into the air above us. Only a light dusting of ochre particles reached the ground, and Todwendy had me stop to wipe the blood from my spear. Its entire blade is shockingly red, from the tip where it was submerged, to the rivulets that collected at the hilt.
You hit him right in the heart, she says. So of course he's dead. What about Crito? Well, if they had an unusually gifted healer, they could have saved him. I expected them to help their boss rather than chase us, but I guess they didn't like him too much. If they took more than a minute killing Granius, Crito bled out in a big puddle.
Suddenly I remember it all differently. The shuddering impact running down haft to my palms, the shrieking and roaring and grotesque death throes. Butchery she started and I finished.
You look a little green, Naleva.
I'll be fine.
You will. It will pass.
What if it doesn't?
Then if it doesn't, that means you're not a killer, honey. Plain as that.
So there's a way out of this feeling, then. I think of the orc and Crito, of everything I saw them say and do, the way they probably grew up and left their families. Why they were sitting in Arkngthand.
So I'm a killer, then.
Congratulations. It's easier to live as one than to die righteous.
Yes, I must be. Because the feeling passes fast. Quite soon after the Fort, I am left with only a great buoyant sense of victory. But by Dibella, it's the kind of victory that you feel between your legs. Before the association can even unnerve me, the heat is creeping up my neck to reach my cheeks. I think I even flared my nostrils. Bloody Bal, I'd even do a man right now! Todwendy doesn't miss a thing and laughs.
"Bless you, Naleva! You looking at me like that, it's the first time I thought you might decide to up and pounce." I look away. "Don't be ashamed. It can happen after your life comes down to a throw of the dice, especially when you fight to roll sixes."
"Dice, eh? Let me see that puzzle box. Looks like a big copper die itself." She is still cradling it in her fingers, and smiles coyly at my request.
"In a moment, dear. But first tell me I'm not your first flame. Wouldn't want to torment you so, if it's just after some awakening you've had."
She has some ego, this one. I shake my head, all ready to retreat from the probe, but actually, I'm not feeling bashful in the least.
"So you've always been of this persuasion then?" she continues, tossing Antabolis' bauble from one hand to the other.
"Well, no, not always. As a girl I used to take the waterfront boys back to the garden granary loft, like we all did. Sometimes, just for the thrill of it." How is she making me say this?
"What a little Dunmer you were! And then I suppose you wondered why everyone raved about those five minutes of grunting and pumping?" Todwendy titters. "I can empathize."
Fair enough, I suppose. But gods, how I'd like to lay her out across the rock and—
"Fear not, Naleva. Just keep a bit of that fire in your belly and you will be as deadly with your charms as you are with that spear. I can tell."
"My spear?"
"Aye, your sticking staff. You moved almost as fast as I did, and didn't hesitate. Good instincts. If you can recall some of that childhood skill, you won't need my help at all."
"Except to walk and talk. Mephala's daughter, you were in there. Who is this Dren fellow, anyways?" She tosses me the puzzle box, as if to signify that we can talk about something other than my tastes in lechery.
"You already know as much as most. He's one of House Hlaalu's more powerful councilors, a right conservative old bastard in a forward-looking organization. But he also lacks a conscience, by all reports, and doesn't let his hostility to non-Dunmer get in the way of business. He owns half the Camonna Tong outright, you understand. And I may not be quite as accomplished a liar as you suppose. Crito wasn't going to part with that bloody little souvenir unless he made a tidy profit, Dren or no."
"Not Mephala's daughter, then. A distant niece."
"Well, I satisfy the sex and murder requirement. The other thing about the Tong is that they are well on their way to having the Fighters Guild in pocket. They own the Balmora chapter for sure."
"And do you have any idea what this thing is for?" I squint at the puzzle box and use my nail to scratch grime from the grooves on its face.
"What, Antabolis didn't tell you? I have no idea. Been here for a month, but I never did have occasion to set foot in a Dwarven ruin."
"And you just decided to risk your life in one on a lark? We met yesterday, you'll recall."
"Well, Chuna will be tickled pink to hear the story, and I'll make him accept it in liue of a small debt. That way he won't drink it away."
Oh, amiable lies. Still, I sense that she doesn't want to explain her motive, rather than having a hidden one.
"I see. I'd thank you, but—"
"The entertainment of your company has been payment enough, yes."
"Where did you get that mask?"
"Well, that's not important. It is a cunning little accessory, is it not? I'll wager that sentry is just now regaining the use of his limbs."
"Could I see it?"
"Naturally. Just don't, well, put in on, though I suppose that's superfluous to say."
It really is a thing of beauty, formed from delicate tropical wood and covered in maroon-and-black geometric patterns that can only be from Hammerfell. My finger pulses as I pick the mask, and I can feel it throb as I gingerly turn it over and over. Todwendy watches my face closely.
"A finely-crafted enchantment, done with an artisan's taste. You look transfixed, Naleva."
This is, in fact, my one magical talent. I could have told her of this artifact's purpose without being told. In moments, the contours and moods of the magicka contained here dance behind my mind's eyes. For the glimmerings of an instant, the mask winks at me with the swarthy face of its creator, black eyes going deeper and deeper...
"Todwendy." My voice turns sharp. "Be careful how you use this things. It's not just immobilizing, not if you trigger it with the proper..."
What lies beneath here?
"Naleva, what are you going on abo—"
I collapse, a wave of green debility disassociating bone from muscle. The ground comes up hard, and I feel volcanic crystals implant themselves in my cheek and jaw.
"Naleva!" She snatches the mask from my limp hand and helps me to my feet. "Is this a joke? You've cut your cheek." Her hand is tender in the oozing blood. "This ought to raise quite a bruise, too."
"I—I set off the enchantment."
"From just holding it? Impossible. You have to wear it."
"So you say, Tavenda. But I sure as hell didn't just faint from nerves!"
She draws back to look at me, as if reappraising.
"Well then. I knew you were hiding some sort of brilliance behind those speckly red eyes of yours."
"Don't exaggerate."
"I never exaggerate."
She keeps pulling out the mask as we continue, scrutinizing it the whole way back to Balmora.
