Author's notes: Oblivion and all its characters, places, events, etcetera are property of Bethesda Softworks. Special thanks to my beta, Pheonicia, who cleans up my grammar errors and typos.

--A--

Chapter Eleven

--A--

"You want to stop now?" Martin asked, halfway between Kvatch and Chorrol.

Part of the decision to take a few minutes sprouted from exhaustion. Despite the fact that we had slept, it didn't mean we were rested. Trust me, there is a difference. The other part of this decision is distinctly more selfish, but equally practical.

"Look," Heaving a heavy sigh I flung the pack, which I was carrying again, onto the ground to rifle through it more effectively. The stuff you want always falls to the bottom. Especially if you carry too much in the first place. "I'm hot, I'm sweaty, and I smell like a guy. No offense," I held up a hand. "I'm going to go take minute to get cleaned up, as this is the third likely-looking place to do so I've found. If you don't like it, just sit on the rock with your back to me. I don't want you wandering off….ahaha!" cackling, I pulled out my prize.

Soap.

"I thought we needed to make haste." Martin settled on the rock, evidence that he fully realized I was not going to argue – he could simply trudge along by himself. Well, we all know I'd never allow that – more likely he'd wake up with a knock on his noggin.

"Tell me you like travelling with a smelly, sweaty girl. Priest's aren't supposed to lie," came my calm rejoinder. I'm so sick of feeling only half-human I could kill something. So, as I'm running low on assassins for the first time in days, it's as good a time as any.

Silence greeted the snappy comment, after which, a resigned sigh.

Snickering, I knelt at the edge of the little stream and peeled my chainmail off. "See? Besides, now that we're not lost, we can cut time from the trip." Hopefully this addition will lighten his mood. I know it sounds frivolous, but honestly, I'm the one walking around like a Shambling Mound, smelling like a troll.

"I thought you have a lousy sense of direction."

Pausing the fuss with the fastenings of my padded jacket, I took a glance back at Martin's back. Was that a joke? An honest to goodness joke? Grinning with a shrug the jacket came off, resulting in a sigh of relief. The shirt beneath was soaked in more than just sweat, smelling like nothing else and not in a good way. Blood spatters near the tattered sleeve, the odd wash of the clear liquid my arm had wept before Martin had healed it, sweat and soot – it's absolutely disgusting.

I scrubbed quickly, washing my clothes as well - you don't just strip down to your skivvies in the wilderness, after all – and dressed in more comfortable attire, wrapping the damp laundry in my packed cloak, to keep everything else dry. Not the best thing for the clothing, but I figure I'm never going to get Oblivion out of them – so why fuss?

Why fuss indeed? I shook them out of the cloak a moment later and hid them under a rock. They're beyond salvage anyway. Let's be practical about this.

While I no longer had the benefit of the padded jacket, to keep my chainmail off my skin, I decided I could deal with it. After all, I felt a lot cleaner, and a hell of a lot more human.

"Okay – you want a turn?" I asked, turning to look behind me again. Martin still sat with his back resolutely to me. "I'm decent."

He turned, shaking his head.

"Well, then, how about lunch? We can eat and walk." Which we did.

Martin's not exactly a chatty person, but apparently he doesn't like pressing silence anymore than I do. Within moments he'd fallen back on his usual coping method: ask me a question that requires an in-depth answer. "Have you always been Fighters' Guild?"

"Oh yeah," I nodded, unsticking my teeth from the waybread. "My brothers, too. And both my parents…" Chuckling, I shook my head. "I got in after my brother Julius took over for former Guildmistress Donton." Actually, the reason I say we were Chorrol based is that's where I was left most of the time, with Uncle Modryn. I still can't believe that of all the things he tried to teach me, only the painting really stuck.

"I didn't realize he had a sister." Martin announced placidly, though he grunted in annoyance when the hem of his robe caught on something. I suppose if I hadn't been so worried when we skirted past Skingrad, I'd have stopped and got him something a little more practical.

Nonetheless, I chuckled at Martin's wince of verbal wrong-footedness. "Most people don't. Hell, once he decided not to grow a beard like the others, no one realized who he was, that's how come he got in with the Blackwood company." I thought it was a pretty weak disguise, when I heard the stories, but it worked. "Fetching idiots." I always append some kind of slur on the Blackwood company – they deserve it, for nearly killing my brother with their bad hist hoo-doo.

"So, three brothers?" Martin asked.

"Four," I corrected. "All older – all big and hairy and loud." Glancing over, Martin looked like he was biting back something rather sardonic. "Yeah, all my bad habits I get from them."

"I didn't…"

"Nah, but you were thinking it. Everyone does, believe me." Sighing in good humor, I ran a hand through my damp hair, tied back in a queue at the base of my neck, rather than in braids. Talk of the Guild, and several anecdotes about my minor adventures followed. As it turns out, Martin's never been outside Cyrodiil.

Given the look on his face when I explained Elsweyrian story drums, I think he rather regrets it. "Don't worry," I patted his shoulder bracingly, noticing that even though I did it very gently he flinched slightly. Well, he's not one of my brothers, after all – I suppose the gesture is pretty out-going. "Oh, crap – sorry."

Shaking his head, Martin prompted me on another topic, which I answered with a shrug accompanied by great detail. He's just not used to being around gregarious people. Though he seems to be a bit gregarious himself, which makes me wonder why he's a priest at all – he doesn't seem suited, somehow, to hanging around a chapel.

He seems more like a doer. Maybe why we're getting on so well.

--A--

We were within sight of Weynon Priory, coming out of the wilderness with some caution, when a blood-chilling scream, coming from the direction of the Priory, rent the air. We'd avoided any assassins after that first encounter, but it looked now like they'd simply headed for our destination, since they couldn't find us. Good tactic, which made it a worrisome one as well.

"Stay put. Keep your head down." My axes freed easily from their rig, by now quite comfortable in my hands, if not entirely familiar.

Martin resolutely stood his ground in an attitude of 'shove it', accompanied by a soft comment to similar effect. The overall impression, however, was not of a quiet priest but of someone whose mettle I wasn't sure I wanted to test. No doubt it would involve a lot of shouting on my part, a huffy silence, all followed by compliance. I don't think he likes being told to stay out of the way, or to keep his head down. Neither do I, but I'm not the heir apparent, so I'm allowed to get into these situations. Then again, he is a mage…well, in this case, if he thinks he can look after himself, let him.

Striding forward I parried a blow with my of-handed weapon, swinging the other forcibly into the assassin's unguarded flank. Thank goodness these guys are no good. Stepping sharply left I threw the assassin to the ground planting a foot on his shoulder to tear the axe embedded in his torso free, sending a shower of blood droplets into the dirt. The spray of the now unblocked injury left spatters across my clothes ad armor. Crap – I just got clean too.

Blood pounded in my ears as I gave the bloody axe a sharp swing, an attempt to clean it off a little. I didn't want the assassin's juices dripping down the haft, making it slippery. By now a sort of calm had settled in my stomach, if nowhere else: this is my arena. This is what I do.

Normally I would never advocate flashy fighting, but when you're small like me, you have to do what you can. In my case, I use my opponent's strength and weight – as well as laws of nature – to turn those strengths to my advantage.

Don't fight strong, fight smart – just like Bellona always told me growing up.

As I flung the dead assassin free Eronor, the cranky Dunmer, came tearing from behind one of the buildings, skidding to a halt as he realized that I was no assassin, then yelped when he saw said assassin dead on the ground, armor vanished, leaving only the strange red robes and a spreading puddle of bloody mud.

"Whoa hey!" I grabbed his arm. After he started babbling incoherently I felt patience vanish like steam as Martin shouted that there were more of them, in pursuit of the Dunmer. Given the shouts came before and during the wash of powerful magicka, tinny on the air, I was sure that I at least, didn't need to worry about them. "Oi! Where's Jauffre!?" I shouted, slapping the hysterical mer sharply, to bring him back to coherence. "Where?" I barked again.

"I…he was in the chapel!" The Dunmer stammered, taken aback by the rough treatment.

Dropping him I pointed at Martin after picking out the dead assassins, lying in the shadow of a storm atronach, many showing signs of burns or ice crystals. Wow…he looks like he's just getting warmed up, too. Then again, must be nice to be able to act against the people who put you into so much fear and doubt. "Stay put! You as well," I pointed at the mer, whom Martin was helping to his feet, having come over as I pried information loose.

I don't have time to be gentle. This constitutes 'trouble, hip-deep'.

I hope he stays practical, without getting all gloomy-depressed over the conflicts of being a priest in a violent situation, and responding with due necessity. "I didn't get you this far to let them use you as pincushion," I growled to myself, swinging my axes menacingly as I moved forward.

Fetching assassins causing all these fetching problems. I'm gonna 'problem' them. Especially since it looks like I'll be mopping up problems for months. Damn, I can't wait to get back to normal missions. Something involving mud, Aylied ruins, walking skeletons and more mud. Nowhere hot – I don't do 'hot' anymore.

I want my Silent Partner – I want to test if some of these grumblings are painful or even anatomically possible.

Carried by annoyance – I'm getting really tired of these bastards trying to foul my mission - I kicked in the door to the chapel, mercilessly startling the assassins. They had no time to do much more than scramble because if they were caught off-guard by me, I certainly wasn't caught off-guard by them.

I simply strode up as action lulled slightly, sinking an axe into the nearest assassin, as if demonstrating technique for a junior guildmember.

The assassins had Jauffre cornered, though he was by no means brought to bay. Taking advantage of the lull my appearance caused, Jauffre gave a shout, lunging forward at the first opening he could find, his elegantly shaped sword punching through a chink in an assassin's armor.

The advantage here is simple. Jauffre and I are two, the assassins many. They have to worry about team members in a confined space, while Jauffre and I were well out of one another's way. One of the assassins actually got taken out by one of his own teammates, a misjudged blow hitting him.

Amateurs. The smart thing is to get us out of the chapel, where they'd have room to move around. I suppose I ought to be grateful they're no good.

"The amulet of kings! It's all they could be here for!" Jauffre panted, taking off at a run with surprising stamina for an old guy fresh from a fight.

Looking around he's right. The assassins all lay dead or dying on the ground. My feet moved of their own accord, out of instinct as my brain continued to take in and filter information.

I mean really – he was sprinting like he hadn't just come out in a life or death struggle.

It's not that I'm out of shape, but I simply have more armor to lug around. "You left it lying out?!" I demanded, enraged as I followed him. What the hell?!

Jauffre did not dignify this with a reply, though whether because he realized this lapse of judgment, or because he was more focused on checking to see that the enemy hadn't achieved their goal, I'm not entirely sure.

My attention went directly back to Martin, still standing at the ready,with Eronor quivering behind him. I'm so glad he's practical about these things – I pity the idiot assassin who tries anything! That's a particularly nasty look on his face – kind of scary, but that might be the rush of the fight talking.

"What's happening?" Martin demanded, striding forward.

"Trouble!" I shouted back, motioning him to follow. "Follow us, but not too close! You see any assassins, you crisp them, or whatever you do! We're not interested in asking any questions!"

Martin barked something unintelligible as I thundered into the priory, almost tripping over the corpse of the poor Prior as I tried to get up the stairs. It looked like he'd simply chose the wrong moment to answer the door.

There were no more assassins, but I knew from Jauffre's shout of dismay, even before I rounded the doorway that the Amulet was gone. Panting, dripping blood on the floor from my axes, I leaned in the doorframe. "Dammit!" I groaned, kicking the wall in frustration.

This is beyond bad. We get the heir only to lose the amulet? What was he thinking, leaving it lying around in such an unprotected place? Was he thinking at all?!

"It's gone," Jauffre breathed blankly, getting to his feet, moving stiffly now, looking fatalistically at the ruined chest. He took a fortifying breath, then put a hand over his face, shaking his head.

"We'll get it back," I said firmly. Whoever's fault this winds up being, this is no time to point fingers. We've still got Martin, and if these crazy-ass assassins can get here, they can get almost anywhere. Their information is disturbingly accurate. "I found Martin. Hey! Martin! You still down there?" Striding into the hall and popping my head over the railing, Martin looked up, a rather doubtful expression on his face. He could just say it, I can see he's thinking it: 'no, I've hopped off to Oblivion for a pint'. "Good!" Oh – priest. Are they allowed to go drinking? Somehow I don't think so – not like we guildmembers do anyway. "Come on – I'll make the introductions," I announced grimly when Jauffre didn't snap out of his reverie immediately.

"What? Oh, yes…yes let's…salvage what we can." Shaking himself, Jauffre followed me back to the ground level.

"Jauffre, this is Brother Martin, your missing heir. Martin, this is Grandmaster Jauffre – the one I told you about. The man with the answers." If not the plan, or the Amulet of kings, came the mental end of the sentence. Reaching ground level I knelt and closed the Prior's eyes as Jauffre finished the descent, folding the dead man's hands over his chest. I get the horrible feeling I won't be able to do much else.

"It is good to see you, my lord," Jauffre bowed at the waist. "But we have no time, we must make for safety. Can you ride at all?"

Jauffre was, I realized, talking to me. I didn't argue at my inclusion – I suppose I figured I'd wind up going anyway. "Yeah – pretty well." Very well – I was learning to ride when most girls are learning that pink is always appropriate (except in my case, being a redhead) and perfume is a good thing (still allergic).

"Then we shall take the horses. We must make for Cloud Ruler Temple- it's to the northwest of Bruma…"

Fetching backwoods travel. I'll have to ask Martin about the little compass again, or we're all going to get hopelessly lost. Travelling with Dagmar taught me this: never assume that someone else has any better sense of direction than you do.

In my case, it means you need a map and compass. Or better yet, a road. With signposts.

"Will Martin be safe there?" I asked. Not that he needs babysitting, when he doesn't get ambushed by a veritable army. I think he actually understood I didn't mean this as a slur on his abilities, but as a Fighters' guild agent inquiring about the safety of her client.

"Safe enough – no place is truly safe anymore..." Jauffre said. "But it is better defensible than this place," he waved to the priory. "Give me moment to gather a few things."

"I'll give you a moment to explain things to Martin," I announced flatly, glowering slightly at Jauffre's retreating back. "He deserved some answers before we drag him gallivanting off all over the Empire," I finished under my breath. "I'll get the horses ready."

Martin gave me what might have been a grateful look, but I shook my head. "Don't thank me yet – you're still in trouble and he's still not talking. Fetching Blades." I rolled my eyes.

Martin chuckled. "Nevertheless."

It did not take long for me to saddle up the paints, estimating stirrup length for the men and hoping I didn't set them to low. Returning inside, I found Martin sitting in a chair, looking thoughtful, if a little pensive. "Well?"

He shook his head, getting to his feet, but I waved him back to sitting. No point getting up – we're apparently not ready to leave yet. What's taking the old guy so long?

"So much for my getting out of your hair. Still…how're you holding up, by the way?" Might as well make conversation, neither of us likes uncomfortable silences.

"Well enough," Martin responded reservedly. "I suppose I'm taking your assertions a little more seriously than before."

Nodding I forced a grin. "See? I try not to get on people's nerves and look what happens. I wind up volunteering for something else." Shaking my head I tried not to show how tired I was feeling. It's almost more of a mental exhaustion than a physical…

"Ailirah?" Jauffre called from upstairs.

Following his voice, I found him in the same room where I'd first met him, fiddling with a pack. What drew my eye lay on his reading table.

"Silent Partner!" I chirruped, swinging forward to heft the blade, resisting the urge to dance around, spinning it in deadly practiced fashion. Bad for the furniture, and it might scare Jauffre a bit. I know I've got it under control, but he wouldn't. It was with some amusement I noted Jauffre's expression, a mix of surprise and incredulity that a little thing like me could wield the weapon, let along pick it up. "How'd you get it?" I asked. My beautiful Silent Partner, I swear the axes were just a fling!

"Baurus. It arrived shortly after you left." Jauffre held out a piece of paper, which I took, balancing Silent Partner comfortably against my shoulder.

A warrior's soul is in her sword. Try not to lose it again. Baurus

Ouch, but I grinned, looking for a safe place to tuck the note.

"What is that?" Martin asked, looking shocked when I trotted downstairs with the massive sword over my shoulder. Well, I call it a sword, and as it's mine...

"This is my much beloved proper weapon. Silent Partner," I announced. "Daddy made it for me."

Martin goggled at it, as I continued grinning.

"Don't underestimate us – we're a tough team." I warned.

Martin smiled slightly, a little incredulously, perhaps but still. "I believe you."

You know, I think he actually does.

--A--