Author's Note: Due to an error on my part, the first bit of Chapter 36 ended up in Chapter 35. I've fixed it, now and, hopefully, it won't negatively impact your reading experience.
Proofread by BrownBear.
-B-
Fire, my friend. Say the word and commit it to memory.
~"Troll-Slaying" by Finn
-B-
From beyond the thick oaken door, Balgruuf's voice continued to boom, mingled with Elenwen's sharper tones and the low rumble of General Tullius.
The door through which we came led into a kind of storeroom full of casks. "Your gear is in the larder, under the sacks of flour," Malborn hissed softly, "If anyone stops us don't speak. Let me handle it."
"Right," I agreed, clutching my skirts to pull them closer to me.
Malborn led us into the kitchen, where a single Khajiit was humming to herself as she worked. The cadence of the song was unfamiliar, but this was no time to be curious. She stood over the fire and did not seem to notice she had company. Malborn gestured to a door, which I slipped through.
In the darkness I was on the verge of conjuring a magelight when I stopped. Not knowing how sensitive to magicka these Mer are, it might be a bad idea to conjure even a little light; if there was other magic being cast, I mightn't need to worry, but since there wasn't…best to just let my eyes adjust. My heart beat a little faster as I looked at the dark ring on my finger. A summons contained with an item—like a staff or a ring—tends to be more discreet than even a magelight.
Outside the larder, Malborn and the Khajiit spoke hastily. Listening to his tone, as I undid my dress, he sounded like he was threatening her.
Suddenly, he pushed the door to, a little, "I have to go back before I'm missed. I've done all I can. Good luck."
"Leave here. As soon as you can. It's going to get ugly." I commanded, finally freeing myself of the yards of silk. The warm air brushed my skin unpleasantly as I moved the sacks of flour from a crate. Within the crate lay a set of Thalmor robes, tucked so they would not wrinkle horrifically while they waited to be pulled out.
Malborn did not answer, so I assumed he was already gone.
There was a note on the hooded robes. So you blend in a little, was scribbled atop a crude sketch map of the building and its major locations and—more importantly—where I could expect sentries to be.
I tossed them aside, dug out my trousers and tunic, doing the laces on both hastily. Then came my worn mail, then the robes. They were a touch too long for me, but if I followed suit of Ondolemar's shadowy aide, I'm sure I could be confused for a somewhat short Mer…up to a point. As much as I'd love to start a fight for the sake of seeing if I'm up to the challenge…mortal prudence will always win out.
I buckled Viidost-Vey and my dagger into place, took a deep breath. "Kathutet."
The Dremora appeared in a silent swirl of smoke. "This is a cupboard," he declared darkly.
And very cramped, once a large, armored Dremora was in there. "Indeed. Here." I handed him the sketch-map. "I need to be here," I announced before unpacking the backpack at the bottom of the crate, crammed my dress into it, then began arranging the pack's contents about my person. The backpack contained everything I'd need for a hasty through-the-wilderness escape, such as I might have to enact. "You're going to help me get through the courtyard."
"How?" he demanded, not at all enthused.
"By causing trouble."
"Is this where you get me killed again?" he interrupted dryly.
"No," I answered, a little hurt by the suggestion, "I want you to cause a ruckus, kill a few Mer, maim a few more, then rejoin me while they're trying to figure out what in Oblivion is going on and whether important people are safe and secure."
"A diversion," he mused, this time with interest. Killing mortals is a Dremora pastime, so the idea would be agreeable to him.
"Yes. But I want you to rejoin me, so no getting killed," I repeated, buckling the backpack closed. There was no way I was leaving such a pretty dress here. The thought smacked of dragon.
"Very well."
And while they're busy with him, there should be enough magicka in the air that anything I try to do goes unremarked. I plan to cause so much trouble they don't know where to look for the source. Oh, they'll notice me missing as soon as anyone checks that I'm not in the privy, but it's finding out exactly where I am that I intend to make difficult.
My heart beat a little quicker, dragonish in the excitement of baiting an enemy in its very lair.
My heart just about stopped when hot breath appeared on my ear, "Are you truly so fond of me that you worry for my well-being?"
"Hang onto this for me," I said, shoving my backpack into his midriff as I stepped away from him.
I didn't watch him buckle it on, but crept into the kitchen to find the Khajiit still at work. She glanced at me, at Kathutet, and then looked away pointedly as if putting every ounce of energy she had into pretending I didn't exist. I wondered what Malborn could have said to her to ensure such diligence, but I didn't bother to ask.
It would be a waste of time and the less she knows, the better. With a final look at the sketch map before stuffing it in my pocket, I approached the door leading out of the kitchen and into the rest of the embassy. I took a deep breath, drew myself up to my fullest height, and pushed out the door into the dimly-lit corridor, trying not to quiver.
I'm not sure if the tremors were apprehension or excitement, but I could have done without them.
-B-
The reception room where the party was being held was stifling, well-lit, and smelly. The rest of the Embassy—although appallingly warm—was less smelly and less over-lit. The air bore the faint fragrance of crushed snowberries, a spicy-sweet sort of smell that makes one think of holidays, and something that was decidedly foreign. The walls were studded with magelights in crystal covers, but most of them were dulled to a faint glow. The elves had done much to hide the stonework, with the result that long carpets padded Kathutet's heavy footfall.
We reached the exit from the Embassy to the courtyard without incident, at which point I let Kathutet go first.
Once I heard commotion and ruckus in the main courtyard, I turned, faced the hallway and took a deep breath, imagining fire and flame and burning wood, of embers and coals and shimmering heat haze.
Fire reached my hands, making the skin feel unnaturally warm. Reached out to either side, I touched the wall hangings, which immediately caught light. Mortal magic; no sense letting everyone know who and what the arsonist is.
Yet.
Kathutet and his clannfear had made their way almost opposite to where I needed to be, and more guards were rushing at him, most of them shouting back and forth. Some seemed to think this was a vicious practical joke. Others didn't. I got that much form snatched phrases on the frozen air.
I focused, felt my skin turn slimy as a spell of chameleon slid into place. Resisting the urge to shudder at the peculiar and almost unpleasant sensation, I sprinted across the courtyard
The Embassy was divided into two main parts: the Embassy where business was conducted (and where the servants had their quarters) and the Residence, where the Thalmor themselves, lived. The two main buildings were divided by a large, empty courtyard, snow-filled; it might be a lovely garden in summer, but the elves didn't waste magic keeping it up in winter. The pathways here, as at the front of the Embassy, were curiously free of ice, snow, and damp. Thus, I didn't have to worry about slipping and tripping.
Kathutet was shouting in his own uncouth tongue, taunting his attackers, but seemed to be enjoying himself. I didn't stop to look and see if I could see him—or check how he was holding up if I could. I simply slipped into the Residence and shut the door behind me, letting go of the spell that hid me from view.
The Residence was quiet as a tomb. It was also more cozily opulent than the Embassy proper: it was clear that this was a place where 'dignitaries' would spend a lot of time so they'd done what they could to make it homey. Personally, I found the gold silk and purple velvet to be a bit much, but the embroidered carpets on the floor and the finely-wrought wooden furnishings—no 'crude' Nord objects, these—were pretty enough.
Kathutet appeared beside me, almost silently, but so abruptly that I nearly squeaked. He looked none the worse for wear, his head, helmet, and armor liberally flecked with blood, a blossom of frost adorning one shoulder. "They're a bit confused: me in the courtyard, their Embassy on fire. Apparently those silly trappings burn like…" he declared, waving a hand to indicate he didn't have a proper metaphor.
"Are you hurt at all?" I asked.
"I am not in the business of 'getting hurt.' It's 'dead' or nothing at all," he snorted proudly, shifting his frosted shoulder to show there was no limitation of movement.
How does one answer that?
I don't know how much time we have before someone thinks to look for us here, or before the guard is redoubled. As it is, I enjoy the benefit of being a complete unknown. There's no sign of Shouts, just a Dremora and an unexpected fire.
"Alright. This way." I took off, up the stairs, at a trot. Malborn's sketch map was invaluable in finding the right office.
There was an open office between us and Elenwen's—what was more, an office with people in it. Two male voices spoke softly, but with the comfort of knowing there was (or should be) no one listening.
"—expenses, you know," a high voice with a trace of wheedling whine in it complained.
"Silence!" came a biting response, thickly accented with what had to be Alinor, "Do not presume, Gissur. You are most useful, but we have other informants who are less…offensive."
Kathutet's whisper, lisped so the sibilant sounds wouldn't carry, coiled into my ear on a cloud of too-warm breath, "There are only two. Magic may yet be needed. They will sense it."
The one identified as Gissur spoke again, tone ingratiating but still sullen, "But no one else has brought you such valuable information, have they?"
"Wait," I breathed.
"Etienne has talked, hasn't he? He knows where the old man is. He told me himself."
"Told you or told you where?" came the Altmer's bored response. Then, and the question seemed more to irritate Gissur than to mean anything, "You'll get your money when he confirms your story. Not before."
"So he has—" Gissur began.
"Everyone talks," the Altmer answered darkly. So much so that a shiver ran through my body. "In the end, everyone talks. The only real question is whether they speak the truth. Perhaps you would like a lesson in such…delicate operations?"
I could almost hear Gissur swallow. Oblivion's Teeth, I swallowed hard and I wasn't the one being threatened.
"Truly," the Altmer purred, "we could go downstairs right now. Of course…" his voice hardened, "that would mean distracting me from my work."
Gissur chuckled uneasily.
"Can you shoot the Altmer?" I asked, knowing our period of remaining unobserved was nearing its end.
Kathutet didn't snort as he usually would have. He merely shifted his bow from his shoulder, produced a heavy arrow and nocked it. He stepped swiftly into the doorway and releasing the arrow straight into the Altmer's chest. The man flew back under the force of the strike, landing in a crumpled golden heap on the floor.
The man's shock at having been shot was mirrored in Gissur's face a second later, for Kathutet felled him as well with the practiced easy efficiency of a soldier who was designed for one purpose and one purpose only: war. They spy and the Thalmor lay in a tangled heal of robes, limbs, and hair. It struck me, strangely, as something the Thalmor should take not of: how death is the great equalizer.
There was no time for philosophy, and I started moving as fast as I could while remaining silent.
"You look ridiculous, by the way," Kathutet hissed.
"That the robes spoil your view is one more reason to wear them," I answered simply.
Elenwen's office door was locked—both with wards and physical locks. Now that we were alone—mostly—we didn't need to be so quiet. The wards were good, but not especially tricky.
Arrogance, my hand-me-down memories hissed. Elenwen might be paranoid outside the Embassy, but here she was comfortable. Here she felt safe. Here, of all places, was where she would be most vulnerable. It was useful to know.
Not the least so I never succumbed to any such thing.
I was still curious, as Kathutet kicked in the door, why the Thalmor hadn't shown up yet. Then it occurred to me that they would be careful and thorough, having to ascertain what was happening, who was missing, and where that person wasn't (the privy, having left early, that sort of thing). They had a pool of suspects and no one was supposed to be here. Also, there was no proof as to where I was: the Embassy grounds' paths were all kept dry and snow-free, meaning no footprints.
And, my hand-me-down memories prodded, the Thalmor might just be arrogant enough to believe that once they locked down the Embassy no one could get in or out. They're far too accustomed to being in control, of being ahead of their enemies. Once they're looped, their effectiveness falls apart.
I shifted uncomfortably: if 'feim' would let an enemy fall through me, let damage pass without harming me, could it let me do other things?
Elenwen was a neat-freak which made my life easier. Her files were kept, mostly, in a locked chest. The box was so obvious that I couldn't not look—even if it hadn't been so obvious, my dragonish side gleefully screamed 'Treasure! A box that big and obvious? There has to be treasure!' which was distracting. I was careful to check to see if I could discern any traps or nasty surprises. The chest—whose lock I had to melt with considerable effort—contained papers and little else. It was not packed full, but full enough that I wouldn't be able to take everything with me.
Some of the documents were written in Aldmeris, making them utterly incomprehensible. Others, however, were written in Common and had various Aldmeris or Common asides scribbled in the margins.
"Hurry," Kathutet prompted from the door.
I grabbed the blue-bound folio, the one with a bear's footprint embossed into the cover, and flicked it open. My mouth dropped as I regarded a rather good sketch of Jarl Ulfric of Windhelm. Well, bear print…Windhelm's emblem being a bear…that makes sense, I suppose…
Treasure indeed, but not the sort a dragon would prefer as a first option.
I flicked through the pages, lines of the dossier jumping out at me. 'First War Against the Empire.' 'As long as the civil war proceeds in its current indecisive fashion, we should remain hands-off.' 'Ulfric's death would have dramatically increased the chance of an Imperial victory and thus harmed our overall position in Skyrim.' My hands tried to shake as I realized that, for all her misdirected paranoia, Delphine was right to be worried about the Thalmor.
Granted, she worried in the wrong direction, but still…they wanted the civil war? They wanted it to continue? Why? To what purpose?
My hand-me-down voices screamed approval at the find, ignoring my concerns about what it represented. What I had in my hands? It was better than treasure. It was power. It could be turned into gold if I was desperate (or crass). It could be turned into clout (which was always useful). It was dangerous to have, but what wouldn't Ulfric do if he found out how well he'd been played? What wouldn't Elenwen do if she thought simply taking it back or killing me weren't options—that it might see the light of day and fall underneath certain eyes if something happened to me?
Blackmail is dangerous. It only works as long as the person you're blackmailing is more afraid of the consequences of not playing along than of not doing so.
"Kathutet, grab me a book, strip the jackets off! Pull them one at a time, they need to go back to their original spots," I called, trying to suppress my shakes.
Kathutet did not ask why; he merely walked to a corner and detached several.
I pulled the fillings out of all the folios that looked like the one on Ulfric, stuffed the contents of the books off the shelves into them, and put them back. The empty book covers went back the shelves, and the jacket-less folios—those precious documents—went into my backpack, which Kathutet returned to me (with an air of having suffered for lugging my equipment around.
"That was a waste of time," Kathutet grunted.
"You have no subtlety," I answered with a smirk. "Let's find 'downstairs.' I'm very curious about 'downstairs.'"
I didn't say it out loud, but I'd rather risk losing people in combat than just leaving someone down here to Thalmor mercies. That fellow earlier didn't paint an encouraging picture about the lower levels of the Residence.
A door slammed open downstairs, followed by harsh voices.
"They've caught up," I noted inanely. They had to, eventually, and I suppose it's best that it happen now, when I'm ready for it than when I'm distracted by something else.
"Really? How could you tell?" Kathutet asked acerbically.
I turned, not answering him and pushed him aside. "YOL TOOR!" Let Elenwen worry about me vs. whatever else is in her office. When she goes to check her precious chest, she might find the lock damaged, but things will seem alright until she actually looks at the contents of the contents.
Or that's the hope. Maybe I'm really terrible at these games of intrigue and just don't know it.
Normal fire would have caused most things to go up in flames. Dragonfire, though, is a little more pernicious than the stuff conjured by traditional magic. The virulent way it lit took to the corridor's furnishings justified all previous caution in using it.
Voices downstairs called to one another in mixes of Aldmeris and Common.
I took off down the hall, down the stairs, and reached the main room. "Someone's set fire to the First Emissary's study!" I shouted.
I was halfway across the room, into the midst of the three Altmer soldiers before Kathutet's presence shook them from my assertion about the fire. "She's not—"
"FUS SU AMATIV!" The alternate form of Unrelenting Force, preferred by one of my inner dragons, sent all three Thalmor flying backward. It also sent me stumbling back into Kathutet, unprepared for exactly how much more focused the full effect was. It left my throat feeling oddly raw.
Two of the Thalmor struck a wall, and hit the floor, moving feebly, gasping in pain. The wall behind them cracked from the force; doubtless the impact had broken bones. The third, standing before the door was thrown through it. He didn't try to rise.
"Now they know!" Kathutet snapped.
"We'd already lost surprise! We couldn't be expected to keep it!" I shouted back. "YOL TOOR!" My throat seared painfully for a moment, then the heat seemed to sooth the raw feeling left by the Unrelenting Force variant. The furnishings in the main chamber began to burn. I knew all those hangings and ornaments were a bad idea. I felt a bit bad for the pretty things that would be consumed by fire, but not bad enough to not use whatever skills I had.
"Do you have a plan to get out?" Kathutet demanded as we rushed down the stairs.
"All you have to do is retreat to the Deadlands!" I answered. "Why are you worried?"
"I mean you, you little fool!" he snarled.
"Depends on what we find!" That we were caught in a burning building distressed me less than it ought to have done. Perhaps it was the dragon in me. Perhaps I expected something clever 'downstairs' from these clever elves.