Special thanks to 16DarkMidnight80 for going over this chapter!
-L-
The bandit-lad, whose name according to Brunwulf, who used it quite casually in order that we should have a name without long introductions, turned out to be called Erald. His younger brother's name was Denen. Both were immediately taken to wait in Ingina's office, with one guard inside the room and one outside the door. For the sake of the little boy, no one looked too harsh or condemning, and Erald valiantly kept up the pretense that everything was alright.
It took strength I found myself inclined to praise. In fact, the older lad's control over his face and voice, his words and the way he moved, was so excellent I seriously wondered if he might not be of use in my service. But I'm not one to make snap decisions, and much depends on how merciful Ulfric feels. I'm willing to entertain the possibility that Erald really did fall into banditry from lack of options; Denen isn't old enough to look after himself, and soldiering for Ulfric's cause, while it pays, would take Erald away from being able to care for Denen, perhaps without being able to pay someone to look after the boy.
It was strange, coming from the situation with Huldah to that of these two brothers. I put the thoughts in a cupboard for later, the better to devote myself to the reason I was here: inspection of the orphanage.
Ingina was an older woman—well, older than Mother—who looked as if she had once been rather heavyset, but whose figure leaner or just harder times had whittled down. She had the quiet dignity of someone who knew what it was to suffer, but to remain strong through that suffering. We could hear her three children playing upstairs; they remained upstairs and out of sight, as if instructed not to distract from business proceedings.
When we did go upstairs to look at the sleeping quarters, the children—ranging between seven and eleven—stopped their play to line up near their mother, waiting quietly, (though they fidgeted as children will). Their clothes were a little shabby, old and worn, patched even, but carefully mended. On the whole they had a healthy, well-kept look to them. Well cared for, to the limit of their mother's purse.
The transformation of Traitor's Post was quite extraordinary. It no longer resembled an inn, but seemed an excellent place for the lost boys and girls of Eastmarch. Upstairs was totally devoted to living space, partitioned off to keep the boys and girls separate, with separate washrooms for both. The place was clean and neat, the simple beds had respectable mattresses, pillows, and bedclothes. Heavy trunks stood at each foot, and a long table with two chairs stood between each bed—space for study, I thought. It might not be extravagant, but no child would lay wakeful and chilled with something little better than a stone for a pillow on a hard bed under meager blankets. Nor did I anticipate that gnawing hunger would keep them awake, either.
Downstairs was Ingina's office, her bedroom adjacent to it, a room for an assistant, the kitchen, and the all-purpose room which would doubtless shift between a classroom and the dining room. A few bookcases lined the far walls, as yet a little scanty with books, but there were a few. The stable outside had been converted so that only half the building still held horses. The rest had been redone to provide small rooms for any further staff that might end up employed here.
All in all, it looked as though it ought to fulfill its function, and do so comfortably. I wasn't ashamed to have Lucinda's name attached to the place, and I don't think she would be, either. It's a far finer tribute to her life than anything I've managed. "You've done an amazing amount of work in our absence, Thane Free-Winter," I observed, glancing again at Lucinda's portrait.
"Thank you. Though it was so good a cause, how could anyone fail to see it realized to the fullest?" Brunwulf answered, inclining his head graciously.
"How indeed?" Mother agreed, glancing around. "I wonder if the Order of Julianos might have extra books they would be willing to sell or donate to such a worthy cause?"
"I hadn't thought to ask them," Brunwulf answered with a shrug.
Mother smiled with the smugness of someone knowing that the rainy day she'd been saving something for had possibly come at last. "I shall write to the Master and see if he would be amenable to spreading knowledge among the otherwise neglected."
For generations, the Ashlynn family was (and possibly still is) one of the patrons of the Order of Julianos' school for the magically inclined—a school which sometimes functions as an orphanage. It's not unheard-of for the parents or guardians of magically inclined children to drop them off and disappear. The school is run by an offshoot of Julianos' priesthood; they really are the only organized group who is both available to train and capable of training children who manifest arcane abilities—without putting a heavy price tag on such education, to the point of excluding those without resources. As some groups of Stendarr's adherents minister among the sick and diseased without concern for pay (and often without concern for their own health), the Order of Julianos teaches those who can pay alongside those who cannot.
It's just that those who can pay—and I mean the ones who really can, not the peasant who has only just attained 'comfortable circumstances'—are encouraged by tradition and probably the priests themselves to donate generously, lest the school close down, leaving the richer families burdened with scions who have magic, and without a reputable place for that magic to be trained so they don't burn the house down (with all its fine furnishings and treasures) or something equally unfortunate. And one never knows what kind of ill things might be learned from some hedge mage hired off the street.
Anyway, Mother knows the Master, and the Ashlynn family has donated generously for decades—maybe longer. There was no magic in my or Marcus' generation of the Ashlynn line, but there have been several mages who cropped up in the family over the centuries. Never extremely powerful, but even an un-powerful mage can cause him- or her-self (and others) trouble if left to figure magic out for themselves.
"It would be pleasant if a few more books could be found," Ingina admitted. "Not just books for study, but books for pleasure."
"I will undertake to have my library searched for duplicates," Ulfric immediately offered.
"And I will, as I have said, write to the Order of Julianos. No Order has more scribes than Julianos," Mother put in.
"Perhaps we should inform our own citizens that Eastmarch's new orphanage is in need of books," I suggested.
"Is there a book-seller in Windhelm?" Marguerite asked, glancing from Brunwulf to Ulfric, to me. "Perhaps one who could be contracted to find what is wanted, specifically?"
The two men, shrugged.
"There's the Crooked Quill in the Snow Quarter. It's quite small, but it's there," I declared promptly, amused by the surprised looks on Ulfric's and Brunwulf's faces. Clearly, they hadn't realized there was a book-seller. Well, Brunwulf might feel chagrined, since he knows the Snow Quarter better than Ulfric does. "It's run by a man and his daughter, Felmyn and Uldere, respectively."
Brunwulf nodded, as if he knew one or the other, or perhaps both, the names, even if he didn't know the business. A crease appeared between his brows, however, as if something momentarily troubled him. Whatever it was, it cleared a moment later. Mostly. Not as if it was resolved, just as if he'd put it aside to deal with it later.
"Oh, darling, I have missed you," Mother chuckled. After all, it was she who taught me to know the mercantile circles in any city I spend any amount of time in.
"Books are expensive first-hand," Ulfric frowned, not as though disapproving but as if wondering whether the Hold's coffers could handle the burden.
"Leandra and I will negotiate with Master Felmyn," Mother answered confidently, putting a hand on my shoulder. "I'm sure we can come to some sort of agreement."
No one doubted it, either.
"Well, now that that's settled, let's have a word with the young man," Ulfric said with a heavy sigh as seriousness settled on him. "Unless," he added, turning to Ingina, "there was something more?"
"Not at all, my Jarl," she answered promptly, eyes sparkling at this promised extension of the building's library.
The four of us, Mother, Brunwulf, Ulfric, and I entered Ingina's office.
While Denen had been chatting happily to Erald, and Erald had continued the pretense that things were alright, silence descended when we entered the room.
Ulfric took one look at Denen, who didn't see anything to be intimidated about—though his eyes were all agog at seeing the Ulfric Stormcloak live and in person—before addressing the boy. He kept his tone light, bantering even. "You've been in here awhile, lad. Have you eaten anything?"
"No, sir," Denen answered promptly, in a tone suggesting he was awfully hungry, even if he wasn't going to come out and say it.
"Well, then. I need a private word with your brother. Why don't you go with Kjeld here," he indicated the guard, "and Ingina will give you both a bit of a meal?"
Denen looked to his brother, a mix of hope and concern on his face.
"Go on," Erald smiled bravely, nudging his brother out of his chair. "Get something hot in you. It's been a busy day."
Denen, suddenly cautious as if he caught some undercurrent in the situation, hugged his brother. "Will you be alright?" he asked quietly.
"Of course," Erald answered at the usual volume. Then quieter, but not so quiet that he couldn't be overheard by the rest of us, "It's just that I may have to leave you here for a while. It's nothing to worry about… but it may be very necessary."
Denen looked like he wanted to argue, but opted not to when Erald tousled his hair and gave him another gentle push. "Go on. Get something to eat before it gets cold." His pleasant confidence lasted until the door shut behind Kjeld and Denen. Then it slipped off, his gaze still fixed as if he could see through the door. His shoulders began to droop. As his face flooded with color, he wrenched his eyes away from the door to regard Ulfric's chest. But he slouched as he did so, clearly aware that his time of reckoning had come.
"So, lad," Ulfric said, crossing his arms. "How long have you been a bandit?"
"Less than a fortnight," Erald answered, still addressing Ulfric's chest.
"And how long have you been coping on your own?" I asked.
He looked me in the face, since it would have been rude to look at my chest, the way he did for Ulfric. "Since the spring," he answered. "It-it was easier to find work, or to hunt, in the spring and summer. Even the autumn, but now…" he shook his head. "I can still hunt a little, but it doesn't make ends meet."
"And soldiering doesn't suit you?" Ulfric frowned.
Erald looked him in the face then, as if stung. "It's a fair enough profession. My father was one of your city guards," he answered, a few degrees short of sharply. "Then one of your soldiers. But who would I leave Denen with? How would I get my pay to him? It's just the two of us, sir. I don't know anyone I'd trust him with. I don't know anyone well enough to even ask." He heaved a sigh. "And we don't live in the city."
"What happened to your mother, boy?" Mother asked softly.
"Killed last year. It was why Father went for a soldier; he couldn't guard the city and not keep trying to find out what happened to her. Me? I think the Butcher got her." He swallowed, then clarified, "Because someone got him, didn't they?"
Ulfric sighed heavily, regarding Erald. "You know I deal harshly with bandits."
"Yes, sir. But my brother isn't a bandit." His tone clearly stated that while he accepted responsibility for what he had done, and that he wasn't asking clemency because of his brother, he was asking that some concern be levied on Denen's behalf.
Ulfric glanced at Brunwulf, who looked troubled, then at Mother and I. "Leandra? I'm sure you have thoughts?"
The lad looked at me so curiously that I began to suspect he didn't know about the adoption.
"It's a muddled situation, my brother," I answered, using the formal address to answer most of the unspoken questions Erald doubtless had. "We cannot overlook the charges of banditry—what would have happened had the first caravan not surrendered, or if we had not overcome the brigands so neatly? And yet, this does sound like that one case out of fifty where the choice really was banditry or starve. And he was sensible enough to not wish to meddle with supplies for the orphanage."
"My Jarl, if I may?" Brunwulf broke in mildly.
"Of course, my friend," Ulfric answered expansively.
"The lad refused to raise weapons against us. That couldn't have gone well for him had his comrades triumphed. I agree with the lady, your sister: perhaps this situation requires mercy rather than condemnation. If the lad has acted like a criminal, then perhaps he might work to prove that he is not a criminal at heart—just a lad pushed to something distasteful. Let us not forget that his brother seems to be his foremost concern."
Mother nodded her approval of this, even as she held her silence. I nodded, as well.
"And what would you suggest?" Ulfric asked.
As Erald listened, something like guarded hope began to creep across his features, as if he couldn't quit believe that things might fall out in his favor for once.
"I would like to ask the young man a question, first." When Ulfric waved me to go ahead, and when Brunwulf held his next remark so I could do so, I moved closer to Erald. "Tell me. How did you ever convince Avstag to let you join his merry band of bandits when you so obviously didn't want to be there?"
"Avstag and his men were up from the Rift," Erald answered, looking at the table.
"Look at me, please."
Erald swallowed, then slowly obeyed, meeting my eyes unflinchingly once he did meet them. "They came across us, figured we were easy prey. They'd have been right. I'm good with a bow, but not with a sword. But Avstag likes to talk." A grimace crossed Erald's features. "He's a fancy talker, likes to think of himself as a gentleman, but that's only skin deep. I heard he'd been freelancing as a thief in Riften, but the Guild decided he was more trouble than he was worth and made him leave the Hold." The disgust was apparent, and while it could be feigned, I rather thought it wasn't, given what I'd observed so far. "He likes to talk, but he doesn't know how. I convinced him it would be better to take me on as a guide around the Hold than to rob us—we had so little. Convinced him it was a fine idea to have a local to help. I was the one who convinced him it would be easier to rob people with his smooth-talking than to start with any… any demonstrations."
"Is that why he was so long-winded?" Brunwulf asked.
Erald looked from me to him. "Yes, sir. With the last bunch, I had to prompt him a little… but it worked."
"I'm going to ask for this lad," I said to Ulfric. He didn't look surprised by this point, nor did Brunwulf. "I may have a use for him, myself."
Erald, however, looked extremely nervous.
"Have him," Ulfric answered. "Although I'd like to know how you intend to deal with those crimes we're sure of."
I inclined my head to him, then turned to Erald. "Do you know who I am, Erald?" It was not the self-important bluster of someone who needs people to recognize her, but a simple question.
"…apparently, you're the Jarl's lady-sister," Erald answered uneasily.
"Yes. I'm also his diplomatic advisor. Can you read and write?"
"Yes, my lady."
"You have been a bandit, but you have also not yet reached the age of majority. Therefore, you will stay here at the Crèche," I said slowly. "Your punishment, such as it is, will be to serve as Ingina's lad of all work. You'll draw water, chop wood, weed gardens, muck stables, hunt game or pests, whatever she tells you to do. You will have a roof over your head and food in your bowl—yes, you and your brother. But apart from that, you will be treated as a ward of the Hold until your eighteenth birthday. At that time, you will pass into my service, and we shall discuss what I wish to do with you."
Erald looked as if someone had just bonked him on the back of the head with something heavy. He opened his mouth, then closed it. Licked his lips. Swallowed hard. For the first time, he looked ready to break down and cry—with relief, I imagine, more than anything else.
Well he might. The work described was surely no worse than he'd already been doing in the interests of providing for himself and his brother, or what he'd probably been doing when his parents were alive. I trusted Ingina not to use the lad cruelly or harshly. She wouldn't wear him to a wraith with hard labor, or flay the flesh from his bones with a sharp tongue, or burden him with overly exacting standards.
More than that, the promise of a period of rest and reprieve—compared to the last few months of his life—where he could finish being a child would be welcome. Move over, he had the promise of a real job when he did turn eighteen, and a job working for a member of the Jarl's household. These promises were practically guarantees. While it was clear he didn't quite trust them… he was more than willing to accept the status quo.
"I-yes, my lady." Not a question of what he would be doing, just simple acceptance. I had the impression he recognized that this was not a charity offer, that I saw something in him that was genuinely useful and that I meant to use him to his full potential. And that wasn't a bad thing.
I nodded. "Finish growing up here. When you've attained your majority, we'll speak again and find out what, in my line of work, would suit you best. Your brother will remain here safely enough. Perhaps a time will come when you may recall him to live in your home again, but we shouldn't get ahead of ourselves." That would answer his other unspoken questions: what would become of Denen while Erald was working for me.
"It'll be nearly a year," Erald pointed out cautiously.
"Then it will take nearly a year. There will always be things to do in my line of work." Even if I don't take him as an apprentice, he could be sent to the Bards College in Solitude, trained to put that sharp mind and clever tongue to good use. At the very least, he could be a spy, or simply an information-gatherer, attached to my business. One hears a great deal when one interacts with people looking to buy things. I don't think he has the same killer instincts I do, which makes him a less than ideal right-hand man, but who knows? Maybe that will come in time, or if he finds a cause worth killing for.
But I have good feeling about this lad, that he'll be useful somehow, sometime, sooner or later. Not a replacement, but maybe someone who could handle things during my necessary absences? Not right away of course, not until I have his full measure, but perhaps, someday, when he's older and when I have too much on my plate.
"Go to the kitchen, lad," Ulfric said, when it became apparent I'd finished with Erald. "Get something to eat. And when you see her, tell Ingina we want to speak with her."
Erald shoved all his surprise and unease into some corner of his mind, hiked on his 'it's all okay' face, got to his feet, bowed to all of us, and then withdrew from the room. Ingina joined us moments later, at which point Ulfric acquainted her with the situation: Denen and Erald were to be her first charges, and Erald was to be depended upon for help around the building and grounds. He did not mention why, and Ingina probably assumed it was because he was almost a man, therefore more responsibility should be applied to him than to his brother.
Ulfric and Brunwulf left the room, nothing remaining to keep them, but Mother stayed with me. "That was a kind thing," she observed lightly, though she watched me closely.
"Perhaps. Or perhaps I'm merely squaring my books: I wonder if I was too hard on Huldah. Perhaps I've been too soft on Erald," I answered with a sigh.
"I think that wretched woman got what she deserved," Mother answered, needle-like sharpness piercing her calm tone. "And I think you were fair with Erald." After a pause, "Who was the Butcher?"
"A serial killer in Windhelm," I sighed again. "Necromancer, obsessed with raising his sister. My lads and I put a stop to him. Not soon enough, though. I know the victims' names and faces—there was no woman old enough to be Erald's mother. Which means there's a list of victims we don't know about." The thought rankled.
Mother shivered, chilled by the thought as much as I was. "What do you plan for Erald?"
"Educate him, then put him to work, just as I said. Peace or war, diplomacy needs competent, clever people. By his own story, he's got a good start on those two traits."
Mother said nothing to this. But by the way she touched my shoulder before leaving, I know I had changed so little in some ways… and so very, very much in others.