Averren seethed in the early morning light. In retrospect, it was perhaps very foolish of him to stop and chat up somebody standing by the side of the road. But being new, and wishing to make sure he was taking the right road, Averren had stopped to ask for directions. Unfortunately, he'd had the poor luck to ask Nels Llendo. He was a little more jovial, a little more outgoing than the average taciturn Dunmer. But when Nels casually demanded fifty drakes, Averren realized that he'd been suckered in by a highwayman. He vaguely toyed with the idea of resisting, but the glass daggers on Llendo's belt dissuaded him. Anybody who carried such lightweight and elegant weapons, and hadn't drawn them yet, probably knew how to use them very well. A pretender would have drawn first, then demanded the money. An amateur wouldn't have bothered demanding. Averren knew the professional type very well, the sort of knife fighter who would draw and strike in the same motion, with lethal results.

Fifty drakes was a good chunk of his nest egg, but it was hardly worth his life. Grumbling, Averren handed over the money. Llendo smiled and bowed slightly.
"A thousand blessings to you, serjo. I shant forget this, and should you ever find yourself in Pelgiad, do stop by the Halfway Tavern and we'll have a drink together." Llendo began walking backwards over a small hill and disappeared, still smiling at Averren. It struck Averren as odd that a bandit should be so . . .engaging as that. He decided that he would avoid Pelgiad today, but someday soon, he might just have to get those fifty drakes back.

The road north to Balmora was long and winding, but well shaded in spots. Averren spent an hour or so lounging under a large tree just north of Pelgiad, munching on trail rations and sipping water from a nearby spring, consulting the directions that Elone had so nicely given him. It was still a long hike up the road, but he was guessing that he'd make it to Balmora by late afternoon or early evening at the latest. He considered taking a nap after his meal, but decided better of it. After all, he'd already met one highwayman on the road. The next one might not be so polite as Nels Llendo.

Later in the afternoon, Averren found himself at a crossroads. He'd come up from the south, so that way was out. The signpost indicated Balmora was to the west, while Lake Amaya was east. There was a path running to the north, but it was curiously unlabelled. Since he had errands to run, Averren turned west, going through a narrow pass dominated by a pair of stony spires flanking the road on each side. The change in terrain was stark and almost immediate before he'd even gone a third of the way through the pass. Well packed dirt gave way to hard stone that still looked rough and coarse, though Averren suspected it had been travelled over and over again for many centuries. Through the other end of the gap, Averren could see what looked to be a narrow canyon with steep basalt walls, a blackened scar on the land that also appeared to serve as part of the road to Balmora. Averren descended the steep path into the canyon, a hand on his saber hilt in case of trouble from the local wildlife, or the local banditry.

Just before sundown, Averren stood at the archway that served as the main gate for Balmora. As he stepped through the arch, he gazed on the buildings, the high walled balconies overlooking the river, the tall narrow towers and buttressed arches. The architecture reminded him of the Imperial City, but it seemed to have been given a Dunmer flair. He walked along the inside of the wall that ran the width of the city, wondering where he ought to begin his search. Standing about idly for a few minutes, he saw a few Dunmer walking in and out of a building that Averren guessed was a tavern, given the slightly wobbly stride the exiting patrons were displaying. He began to move towards the tavern when he felt a hand gripping his arm tightly. He turned to look squarely at an Argonian, the eyes bright and reflecting a hint of fear.

"You do not want to enter that place, outlander," warned the Argonian in its hissing sibilant voice. "It is not safe."

"What do you mean?" asked Averren.

"Camonna Tong," the Argonian spat. "They hate outlanders, all outlanders, even Dunmer outlanders. They will kill you if they can."

"Who are they?"

"Criminals. Thieves and murderers, smugglers, all Dunmer." The Argonian squeezed Averren's arm slightly. "Please, friend. You have travelled a long way, I can tell. It would be very sad to have your throat cut after surviving the road."

Averren considered the situation, then nodded. "All right, then. If I was an outlander, where would I go to find out about other outlanders in town?"

"Ahhh, South Wall. The South Wall cornerclub. Across the river. Southmost bridge. Cross straight, you cannot miss it."

"My thanks to you," smiled Averren.

"You are most welcome. And welcome to Balmora."

Averren began to head towards the bridge the Argonian indicated, thinking himself very fortunate to have met the Argonian, when he bumped into a man in a black cloak. At least, he thought it was a man. The hood was very deep and there was no good way to tell who or what exactly was underneath. The cloaked figure seemed to clear his throat, then glanced down. Averren looked down as well, seeing a small leather pouch laying on the ground. Glancing back up, Averren knelt down, picked up the pouch, then handed it to the cloaked figure.

"Sorry about that, serjo," apologized Averren.

"It is quite all right," rumbled the cloaked figure. "I was careless. Good day to you." He began walking up the street along the river. Averren shrugged and crossed over the bridge.

Kharag stepped into the Eight Plates tavern, shaking slightly. He needed a drink to soothe his nerves. He'd never seen that Dunmer coming down the street, and likely the same was true for the Dunmer. Could Mephala be testing him, meddling in Her own plots, just to make his task more amusing for Her? It did not seem unlikely, and it would be most unfair. But then again, who was he to argue with the whims of a goddess?

Stepping up to the bar, Kharag ordered a mug of shein, laying two drakes on the bar. The barmaid looked at him with a mixture of curiosity and disdain, but handed him the mug. He retired to a corner of the bar, sipping his drink slowly, thinking. Dumb luck. Had to be. The thought did not cheer him.

"Evening, Balyn!" called out the barmaid.

Lifting his eyes without moving his head, Kharag observed Balyn Omarel entering the Eight Plates. So this was the traitor, the murderer, the indiscreet assassin that threatened the Morag Tong. Kharag bit back a growl. He had to remain calm and focused. For the Tong, and for himself. This was a task handed to him by Black Hands Herself. Failure was not an option.

"Hai!" snapped a Dunmer, coming over to Kharag's table. "Why do you wear your hood up inside? Haven't you got any manners, s'wit?"

"I don't think you want me to remove my hood," replied Kharag, making his voice shaky and soft. "I was out hunting and was infected with helljoint. Rat bit me on my hand when I digging up a wild ash yam. That's why I have the gloves and the cloak. Wouldn't want to be passing it around." The approaching Dunmer paused, uncertain of what to do. Kharag coughed twice, making the Dunmer jump slightly. The other patrons of the room turned to the scene, though the looks Kharag was getting were becoming increasingly hostile.

Standing up slowly, the orc began to shamble towards the Dunmer who'd challenged him, his voice still shaking and soft. "Please. Pity a poor hunter who cannot make the donation needed by the Temple for healing of this dreaded affliction."

The Dunmer's eyes were wide with fear, a hand digging furiously into a coin purse, throwing drakes on the floor. "Take them! Take them all! Just don't touch me, you blighted fetcher!"

Kharag made a point of slowly gathering up the coins, then shambled out of the Eight Plates with several sets of hostile eyes tracking him. He was probably not going to be welcome back in here for a while, so it was best to make an exit that convinced them to leave him alone. Once he was out of the Eight Plates, he began to make his way across the river, keeping a careful eye out. As he came close to the South Wall cornerclub, he saw the Dunmer he'd bumped into earlier coming out and trotting up the stairs to the terrace above. What was it about that man? Admittedly, Balmora wasn't the biggest city on Vvardenfell, but seeing him twice in less than an hour was disconcerting. Cautiously, Kharag trailed the Dunmer to the end of the street, hiding in the shadows of a stoop, watching him stand outside a door of a small house and knocking. An old Cyrodiilic man cracked the door open, then ushered him inside.

Kharag consulted the small map he'd been given. Pondering his current location for a moment, he realized that the small house the Dunmer had stepped in to sat over the house of Balyn Omarel. Walking over to the edge of the terrace, he looked down and saw a trapdoor set into the otherwise flat roof of the house. That had to be Omarel's house. The orc slipped steathily over the side of the terrace and down onto Omarel's roof, testing the trap door. Unlocked. Careless of him. Which, of course, was why Kharag was there to begin with.

There was no telling how long Balyn would be at the Eight Plates, which meant Kharag had no time to inspect the house closely. A cursory glance about the place gave Kharag the perfect place to perform his mission. A small stew kettle sat over an open cooking hearth, the fire make the contents give off a delicious smell. Feeling slightly sorry for not being able to taste what would be Omarel's final meal, Kharag pulled out the pouch and dumped the bittergreen leaves into the stew, then stirred the pot with a spoon to hide them. Popping the lid back on, Kharag took the spoon with him. Omarel probably wouldn't miss it, and very soon he wouldn't have much use for it.

After leaving Omarel's house through the trap door, Kharag slipped back into a shadowed alley, changed clothes, then walked back across the river and caught the last silt strider out of Balmora bound for Vivec. He slept in the passenger compartment of the insectoid without any other travellers around to bother him.

When Averren stepped into the South Wall cornerclub, he didn't entirely know what to expect. It was certainly as dimly lit as any tavern he'd been in before his incarceration, and the smells of stale spilled spirits weren't too much different from the bar in Arrille's tradehouse in Seyda Neen. But there was a pardoxical air of both relaxation and tension inside, as if some were here after finishing their work and some were here just before commencing their work. It took a moment for Averren to recognize the last time he'd been in such a place, where he'd felt such an atmosphere. The South Wall was nothing less than a thieves' den. And being an outsider, Averren knew he would have to be very careful who he talked to and what he talked about. The thing about places like this were that they had legitimate business conducted daily. Beds rented, drinks and meals served, entertainers playing, and that made it a place where information could be posted to the masses. Whether the authorities knew that it was a front for criminal activity was a matter of conjecture.

He settled on a young Breton woman standing off by herself, glancing at the notices placed on the commons board by the authorities. Clearing his throat gently, Averren asked, "Excuse me, but I'm looking for somebody here in town."

The Breton glanced back over her shoulder for a moment. "That's nice," she replied, ignoring him.

"I really could use some help." Averren tried smiling pleasantly.

"I'm sure you could."

"If you're unable to help me find who I'm looking for, perhaps you know somebody who can."

She turned to look at him. "You are a persistent fetcher, aren't you?"

"It's probably my only redeeming quality."

"All right," she replied with a chuckle. "I'm Sottilde. And while I may not be able to help you find your friend, Bacola might. He's the publican around here, knows just about everybody in Balmora."

"And where might I find him?"

"Down in the common room, I imagine. He's usually there, chatting up the patrons, buying old regulars a drink now and again. Good man, really."

"My thanks to you, Sottilde." Averren made a low bow. Sottilde blushed slightly.

"Stop that!" she laughed. "Off with you."

Averren grinned at her and walked down the hall, descending the stairs into the common room of the cornerclub. A bard sat picking out a lively tune in one corner, while patrons chatted and drank, barmaids sweeping in and out to refresh emptied tankards, the air charged with energy. In the middle of it stood a large Cyrodiilic man, smiling broadly, clapping patrons on the back, moving from table to table, checking to make sure everybody was happy. As he passed by Averren, the smile grew even wider.

"Well, now! A new face in the South Wall! What can Bacola Closcius do for you, my Dunmer friend?"

"I'm trying to find somebody, and Sottilde upstairs said you might be able to help me."

"A fine lass, she is, but my gifts are modest. I know many people, and all of them are worth knowing, but even I don't know everybody in Balmora. Test me, Dunmer, surprise me and ask for a name that I do not know."

"I'm looking for a man named Caius Cosades."

The jovial smile vanished from Bacola's face in the blink of an eye, replaced by a chilly, probing gaze. "Now why in the world," the publican asked in a low harsh voice, "would you be looking for that old sugar-tooth?"

"I'm a courier, hired out of Seyda Neen. I was supposed to deliver a package to him, but I wasn't told where to find him exactly. The only thing that they told me was that he lived in Balmora." Averren felt his heart starting to race. The music and merriment continued on without pause, but it was as if he and the publican were cut off from the rest of the world. Closcius scrutinized him, looking for any hint of deceit. When he was satisfied that Averren at least appeared to be telling the truth, the visage warmed up somewhat, but not at the level it had been at moments earlier.

"I think you know more than you're telling me, but whether it has any direct bearing on your task, I cannot tell. I do know Caius Cosades. If you ask around here, most folks will tell you the same story: Caius is a nice old gent, but he hits the sugar a little hard sometimes. If you ask me, there's more to that old man than meets the eye, but what it is exactly, I cannot say. If you say you were hired to deliver a package to him, then I believe you. You can find him in a bed-and-basket on the upper terrace. Just go out the front door, take the stairs on your right to the terrace, then left. House at the end of the street." Closcius turned away and greeted another patron with renewed enthusiasm.

Thinking himself exceedingly lucky for avoiding a knife in the belly or an all-out bar brawl, Averren quickly went up the stairs and exited the South Wall. Trotting up the stairs to the terrace, Averren began to wonder for the first time just what exactly he'd gotten himself into. The way Closcius had reacted to the name of Caius Cosades suggested that Cosades had some sort of dangerous quality about him, and Closcius himself had said there was more to the man than met the eye. Had the Emperor sent Averren into a trap of some sort, releasing him into Morrowind to be killed at the hands of a master assassin? It wouldn't be the first time that somebody had been given a package with a note that read "Kill the bearer of this message." But a small part of Averren's mind chided him, telling him that such a plot was just too grandiose compared to his station in life. There might be a simpler explanation, but he was just going to have to wait and see what that was.

As he reached the house at the end of the street, Averren felt his gut tightening slightly. He wanted to run. He wanted desperately to run, anywhere, just to avoid delivering this package. Standing at the door step, Averren struggled with himself momentarily. He had nowhere to run to, nobody to call on, and no means of leaving this place. All he had to do was deliver the package, go back to the South Wall, get a room for a couple nights, and think his way out of this. Averren knocked on the door lightly.

The door opened partially, and an old Cyrodiilic man with a fringe of snowy hair peered out at him with one bloodshot eye. "Who's there?"

"I'm a courier. I'm looking for a man named Caius Cosades."

"What do you want with Caius Cosades?" challenged the old man.

"I have a package here, given to me by Sellus Gravius of the Legion, with orders to deliver this package to Caius Cosades and only him. The package is sealed and carries the signet of the Emperor."

Opening the door further, the old man waved Averren in. "Please come in, quickly."

Averren didn't need to be told twice, and he slipped into the small house. The accommodations were sparse but comfortable: a sturdy bed, a plain table and a small shelf that held some simple plates, a couple of plain chairs, another small shelf near the foot of the bed that held some books, and a bench along one wall with a strongbox underneath it. Half- tucked under the bed sat an ornate brass pipe, the kind used in smoking various tobaccos and other less legal inhalants.
"All right. You said you have a package for Caius Cosades, and I am he."

Averren unslung his pack and opened it, digging in to the bottom and pulling out the package, the seal still intact. He handed the package to Cosades without a word. The old man broke the seal with his thumbnail, pulling out a sheaf of documents, looking them over momentarily then looking at Averren.

"Sit down, lad. You standing around makes me nervous. Sit, have a bite to eat. Looks like you haven't had a decent sit-down meal all day. If you look in the corner by the table, there's a coolbox. Not as nice as a proper pantry, I suppose, but it serves me well enough." Cosades returned his attention to the documents, scanning them intently.

With a shrug, Averren sat down and looked in the coolbox. There appeared to be plenty of food, and he was feeling hungry. Rummaging around, Averren made himself a pair of sandwiches, stuffed with a dark yellow cheese and some sort of light meat. The taste was delicious, the sharpness of the cheese mixing with a sweet flavor that could only have come from the meat. The two sandwiches were wolfed down in short order and Averren was busy fixing himself a third when Cosades lifted his head.

"Feeling better?"

"Much," replied Averren around a mouthful of sandwich. Swallowing the bite, he continued, "My thanks to you, serjo. Your hospitality is excellent and much appreciated."

The old man gave Averren a crooked grin. "Well, I have understood that it's always a good policy to feed one's apprentice well."

Averren's eyes widened in shock. "Ap-apprentice?" he stammered.

"Yes, according to these documents, you are to be my apprentice." The old man stood and looked down at Averren. "Allow me to formally introduce myself. I am Caius Cosades, an operative in the Imperial Intelligence Service, spymaster for the province of Morrowind, resident-in- charge of Vvardenfell district, and your new master." Cosades took the chair opposite Averren and locked his eyes on him. "You didn't read those documents, did you?"

"No, I didn't. The thought never occurred to me."

"Hmmm," replied Cosades. "Which tells me that you can be trusted to follow simple orders. Bigger ones, we'll have to find out about later. Of course, even if you had opened those papers, they would have been unreadable to you, since they were encoded. You will learn that code, in time, along with other things. But to sum up, the Emperor has placed you into my service as a new apprentice, to train you and prepare you for service as a member of the Blades."

"You mean I'm a spy now?" replied Averren thickly, the sandwich in his hand forgotten.

"Not yet," Cosades replied with a growl, "but you will be soon enough."