At first, fate seemed to smile on his ventures. Miraak encountered a friendly guard he recalled from his imprisonment in Dragonsreach that told him Nazeem had just been seen heading for one of the raised gardens in the Cloud District, halfway up the ascent to the Jarl's palace. No sense in letting more of the day waste away.
"...I was led to expect an audience with Commander Montrose himself." The haughty sniff that followed this statement could only have come from a man who had never been punched in the face, and Miraak's suspicions were confirmed when he reached the garden after climbing many steep steps. A well-dressed Redguard sat opposite Lydia amidst a collection of hardy perennials and gently trickling fountainwork. "He'll speak to an upjumped peasant like Belethor, but not one of the city's most powerful noblemen? I shall not be delegated. Next, you'll have me waiting in line like those sorry fools at your lodge."
"Montrose is busy." Lydia leaned back. The wooden bench she sat upon creaked uncertainly. She wore full heavy armor, and her silver half-mask reflected the babbling waters like moonlight made solid. "My time is yours to waste, but I won't be worn down. I'm not Hrongar. Or Balgruuf, either. Keep running that tongue all you like. When you have something to say, I'll start listening."
Before Nazeem could offer some sputtering response of indignation, Miraak purposefully scuffed his boot against the ground. "Apologies for the interruption. Nazeem, you have some unsettled dispute to attend to. The Companions have sent me to settle matters."
"What's this? A Companion?" Nazeem glanced over his shoulder, but did not seem overly perturbed. "They must be growing rather desperate if they're sending out old men to do their brute work. I don't know your face. Do you know who I am, barbarian?"
"I am unconcerned." Miraak raised his fists in what he hoped to be an intimidating fashion. "This is your last chance to resolve this trouble without violence."
Lydia snorted. "This one's bold, Nazeem. Maybe you should listen to him."
Nazeem said, "Maiden-Loom should know better than to think I can be intimidated by some base display of thuggery. The matter between us is certainly not settled. And as for you, Companion...Stenvar? Stenvar! You've let this urchin come far too close. Dispose of him, won't you?"
A rumbling voice intoned: "Yeah, yeah. Keep your hat on."
The vaguely man-shaped mass that emerged from behind the pillar gave Miraak pause. His dragon rose from its slumber and demanded retreat; this was no fight they could ever hope to win. Silence, creature. You brought us here. We will reap what we have sown. He smothered its protests in waves of blank peace, of the sort that had visited him in the Eldergleam Sanctuary. Nazeem's bodyguard came within punching distance with a few long steps.
"Stenvar, I presume?" Miraak was no short man, but he had to look up at the burly mercenary.
"Uh huh." Stenvar sighed. "Don't like hurting Companions. Used to have some in the family." Nazeem babbled some words of protest at this. Miraak dared to glance past Stenvar to see Lydia observing them with a glint of interest in her gaze.
"Ever considered following their example?" Though he was physically outmatched, Miraak could not help but try to defeat Stenvar some other way. The dragon was not so detached from him these days that he did not rush to plotting on instinct. "I could put in a good word for you in Jorrvaskr. I do not imagine there is much glory in guarding this sycophant."
"My pa used to say guilds are like rawhide. When they're drenched, they strangle what they bind." He nodded to the city spread below them like a cartographer's draft. "I lived in Windhelm during the war. Came to be that I could smell blood coming. Gonna happen here, too. Companions, Silver Dawn, whatever. No sense in dying for someone else's cause. We all walk our own roads to Sovngarde."
"You speak of war."
"Naw. Not enough folks left for a war." Stenvar's forehead wrinkled. "More like...you ever see one of them snakes that bite their own tails? End up eating themselves, the sorry creatures. Speakin' of sorry creatures. Are you gonna leave on your own?"
Miraak smiled, and the skin of his lips cracked in the cold. "If what you say is wisdom, I remain a fool."
Nazeem whined, "I'm not paying you to talk! Get rid of him so I can continue my business."
"Alright then." Stenvar's hands gripped the front of Miraak's tunic, and he found himself abruptly of height with the old sellsword. "Can you swim?"
"Yes. No blood on the clothes, if you would be so kind. These are my only ones."
Stenvar grunted and took a few steps forward. A dreamy sense of weightlessness took root in Miraak's gut and he made the mistake of glancing behind him. One of the Jarl's stairside ponds waited far below.
"Don't come back up here."
A heavy gauntlet eventually tugged him out of the water onto the paved stones. Lydia knelt beside his head with much rustling of leather and metal.
"You alive?" She asked gruffly.
"Unfortunately."
"Best find someplace to dry off before frostbite sets in. Would be a stupid reason to end up maimed."
Miraak eyed her silver half-mask and asked, "Are there good reasons?"
"Ha. Be careful with that death wish of yours. Sooner or later you'll run into someone who thinks you're worth the trouble." She pulled him to his feet and he shivered violently. His clothes were completely soaked. "C'mon, then."
"W-What about your conversation with Nazeem?" Miraak wrapped his arms around himself tightly.
"He'll keep." They descended the grand stairs of the Cloud District, Miraak plodding behind her like a damp duckling. "I owed you for what you did for the Gildergreen. Means a lot to us folk that grew up with the old tree. One less reminder of that awful year."
"Not a friend of the Thalmor, I take it?"
"One could say that." She stopped and looked up at the sky. Despite the chill, the day was bright and sunny. "They called Stoker a rogue agent. Which I suppose is what he became in his failure. Not a merciful sort, the Dominion. Even still. They hurt us, again and again, and the Empire thanks them for it. Even gave them a new embassy."
Dangerous territory, this conversation. "I read in a copy of the Black Horse Courier that the Dominion agreed to withdraw their Justiciars and leave the enforcement of the Talos ban to the Imperial Legion. Surely that represents a step in the right direction?"
"They murdered the Dragonborn. Slaughtered the Greybeards. The Blades…" Her gauntlets clenched into fists and she turned away. "As recompense, they agree to stop kidnapping and torturing innocent Nords. Wonderful. So generous, those elves of Summerset. Clavicus Vile would not be so bold."
"I did hear of your former position." Could she hear his heartbeat? Surely Lydia must have heard his name by now if she knew of the Gildergreen's restoration. Perhaps she is toying with me. Perhaps she pulled me from a pond to push me off a ledge. "Were you close to the Dragonborn?" Did he ever take you to Solstheim, and tell you of the cursed priest haunting his steps?
She shook her head and resumed her downward path. Miraak hastened to follow. "Not nearly so much as some think. He left me at Sky Haven Temple at his earliest opportunity. We were never friends. Still...if I had been with him, at Lakeview or the Throat...well, things might have ended differently. I was so young when he left me with the Blades. So blind and foolish. We were swatting at dragons while the Thalmor concocted plots of annihilation."
"And now you swat at werewolves. Less dangerous, I suppose, particularly if you only have one eye to work with."
They reached the Plains District. The young Gildergreen in the distance was now surrounded by a gaggle of curious children. His view was blocked by a silver chestplate. Lydia held her mask in one hand.
"Two eyes, Miraak. And both of them wide open. The Thalmor murdered my cousin while I was off playing with Akaviri relics. Hrongar is a fool, but I'll not let him suffer a similar fate. His child will not be orphaned by abominations. No child in this city will, under my watch."
He looked at her face and blinked. "Do you have reason to fear such horrors?"
"If you want to get Nazeem, you need to take care of Stenvar first. You'll never beat him in a straight fight, and I'm guessing your friends in Jorrvaskr won't care for you stabbing him in the back. In the Blades, we learned to defeat brute force through careful strategy. Find Stenvar's weakness, and you'll have your brawl with Nazeem."
"Thank you for this wisdom. I will think on it."
She replaced her mask. "You want wisdom? Turn your back on the Companions. Find a safe place to hide until this is all over."
He huffed. "I have had my fill of skulking in the shadows. And Montrose as well as your knight S'argo already tried to lure me into your ranks."
Lydia shook her head. "Didn't ask you to join the Dawn. We have enough eager young fools ready to die for the cause. Stenvar was right. There's blood on the wind. And all the cleverness in Tamriel won't save a man like you from what's to come."
When the time comes, you bitter wretch, I will be more than just a man.
He found Kishla's clothing shop unfortunately occupied. Two thieves that he had last seen bound and gagged now leaned against the counter as free and unfettered as dragons in the age of his birth.
"Seems you should be in chains," Miraak remarked. "Do the guards of this city let robbers walk free?"
Sassafras grinned and knocked his shoulder against Nelkir. "Only the handsome ones."
"Should have let you drown. I would have been doing Whiterun a service."
Nelkir glared. "Shut up about it, will you? No one's gonna give you a medal for saving us. Let's just forget it ever happened."
An inquisitive purr interrupted them as Kishla leapt on the counter. She wore an outfit of golden swirls with lavender embroidery that seemed to shimmer as she moved.
"Kishla hears that this ragged warrior saved her little apprentices? But that is not what pesky Sassafras told her happened."
Nelkir sputtered, "Kishla, he's lying, we've never met this—"
"Wise matron," Sassafras exclaimed, raising his hands. "I didn't think the actions of this man were worth mentioning, considering all the chaos that followed. He did yank us from the river's clutches; what else could a Companion do, but obey the whims of his precious honor?"
Miraak huffed. "I think Vilkas would have been happy to let you drown."
Kishla sat primly across from him. "This one owes you for protecting her little fools. She does not like to let debts sit unanswered. Name your price, Nord. Shall it be a forgery? Theft? A simple pouch of gold? You are not the first Companion to come to us in dire need."
Nelkir stammered protest at this offer, but Kishla silenced him with a hiss. She stared expectantly at Miraak, her wide green eyes gleaming like chips of raw glass.
"Hmm." He made a show of glancing around the small shop. "I will take some secondhand clothes. Nothing you will miss. And some information. That will do, for a start."
Nelkir growled, "For a start?"
"Yes. This will cover the Wood Elf. You were far heavier. That part of my debt, I will leave to fester."
"Very well," Kishla replied, though her ears flattened in apparent displeasure. "Take what you will, and ask what you dare. This one cannot promise not to hold it against you."
"I want to know why the Jarl let them go." He nodded towards her supposed apprentices. "Jon Battle-Born spoke of Hrongar's aversion to dungeon cells, but surely there is more to it than that."
"Why does the noble Companion care about such a thing?"
Idle curiosity, he might have said, and it wouldn't have been a complete lie. Instead, he clasped his hands together behind his back and waited.
After a minute she made an exasperated sound. "Fine. Kishla will tell you what most already know. The Jarl hates the Thalmor...but he fears them even more. Though this one expects he would die many times over before admitting such a thing."
"Ah. I do recall Lucia mentioning that your Wood Elf here had ties to the Dominion."
Kishla presented such an innocent face that a weaker man might have been tempted to reach out and pet her. "There are no thieves here, old one. If our irreverent Sassafras was once called Rinast Lichenvale, he has left that life far behind. No law-abiding noble in Whiterun should ever have a need to fear the Thalmor, yes?"
Miraak raised a brow at Sassafras. "How much of it is true?"
He smiled, but the expression did not entirely reach his eyes. "All of it, as far as Hrongar is concerned. As for myself...I don't know. Danger of telling lies for a living, isn't it? Sometimes even I forget which parts are real. My memory is a tattered patchwork of half-remembrances and stories."
Nelkir squeezed his shoulder. "Doesn't matter. You're here now."
"Yes!" Sassafras pulled Nelkir close, and Kishla rolled her eyes as they kissed for a long while. Miraak was just about to leave when Sassafras stepped free of the embrace with a laugh that filled the shop.
"Listen to this, you old draugr. Some free wisdom." Sassafras glanced fondly at Nelkir before returning his attention to Miraak. "Just one person that truly knows you. That's enough."
"Thanks for nothing," Miraak murmured, already moving to peruse the worn clothing on display. The day had given him much to think about, and the advice of a poor thief was very low on his list of concerns.
Kishla commanded, "Useless ones. Sort through the donation pile. Divide by size, yes? We do not wish for the Silver Dawn's collector to linger here, lest we end up like Ruthnasi Thirilas."
Nelkir scoffed and settled firmly against his companion. "Not as if we worship Daedra. I'm not scared of Hrongar's new pets."
"I am," Sassafras declared, and knelt to grab a sack of clothes. "C'mon, my sweet, it's something to keep our hands busy while the Jarl forgets us."
"Fine. Just don't ask me to sew any buttons." He slid to the floor to join Sassafras. They sat shoulder-to-shoulder against the counter as they tossed garments into different piles. Sassafras rambled about nothing in particular while Nelkir made occasional noises of affirmation or snorts of amusement. Miraak's focus darted to them from time to time as he selected a humble wardrobe of clothing from Kishla's shelves. He had some idea of what he needed from what Lucia had chosen for him on their first visit, and he was assisted by Sassafras' loud suggestions. Everything the thief urged him to consider was a definite no.
Though it brought Miraak some satisfaction to turn to the door without having to lose even one of his few septims, the warm feeling in his gut soured when he considered the many failures of the day. Nazeem remained at large. Benajah the Redguard had no doubt recovered even more of his strength by now and stood poised to snatch the position of lore apprentice from Miraak's needful fingers. Some old clothes and a few fresh bruises. A poor showing for my first day as a whelp.
As if to mock his destitution, the door opened to nearly hit him in the face. Miraak stumbled back and would have fallen on his arse, clothes and all if a dark-skinned hand had not reached out to steady him at the last moment.
"Apologies," offered a firm but weathered voice. Its owner, a bearded old Redguard with a sun-beaten face, regarded him through eyes of sea-green that seemed immediately familiar. "I, I should not have rushed in."
"Think nothing of it," Miraak said slowly, the cogs of his mind working.
A shorter Redguard that bore a resemblance to the older man shifted past. He took in the sight of Nelkir and Sassafras and scowled when his gaze settled on Kishla lounging on the counter next to her ledger book. "This is the Alfiq we heard about in Riften, father. The twin to their guildmaster. We'll find nothing here of worth."
Kishla purred, "Do not be so sure of that, young one. This one has much to offer to the discerning buyer."
The older man's expression darkened. He said, "We have not fallen so far as to associate with, with thieves that kneel in service to the Saint of Suspicion."
His accusation changed the room's atmosphere so severely that even Miraak, blind to social cues as he was, noticed Kishla stiffen. Nelkir's hand went to his boot and though Sassafras restrained his lover's movement with a warning gesture, his own eyes narrowed towards the two intruders.
"Kishla thinks you should listen to your child, old man." She flashed her fangs. "One would think two Crowns would be more careful with their words, so far from Hammerfell."
The young Redguard tensed, but his father urged him towards the door. "Come, Basil. We won't, won't find Ben here."
Sassafras called out, "Good riddance!"
They were nearly out the door when Miraak cleared his throat. Basil paused to glance over his shoulder, and Miraak caught his eye.
The rest was easy enough. Ten minutes later, Miraak watched the two Redguard hasten down the ice-glazed cobblestones in the direction of Jorrvaskr. And so ends the threat of my sole rival for Vilkas' bountiful attention. Or soon enough, in any case. The dragon would have preferred it if Benajah knew Miraak to be the cause of his downfall, but nonetheless, it rumbled in satisfaction at the smooth execution of a cold-blooded plot. Curiously, Miraak's own soul remained an unsettled thing. A burdensome weight settled in the pit of the stomach.
Perhaps this was something Kynareth had done to him, he reflected gloomily as he warmed himself by a streetside brazier. Pleasing the dragon from time to time was inevitable; like it or not, he found himself on an upward path of ambition that suited the loathsome beast far too well. But like a cat lapping up poisoned milk, the intrigue it celebrated would soon become its undoing. Benajah was a necessary sacrifice. The boy meant nothing to Miraak. Just like the Argonian on the road to Valtheim and all the rest of the dead.
Miraak rubbed his numb hands together and murmured ancient curses. He tried to summon his appetite with little success, though it had been a long and arduous day. A necessary sacrifice, he repeated to himself again and again as images of Sofie and Hugs-the-Shadow flashed through his mind and the air seemed to grow colder with every minute that passed.