The Imperial City had held enough tantalizing hope to keep him pinned for half a decade, give or take. It was the seat of the Inner Council, the Imperial Watch, the provincial newsletter with its tantalizing proprietary technology. His sublet at the Waterfront not only gave him communication with his homeland, it proved him the most reputable tenant the housematron had ever had.
But the newsletter told him they only had room for one crank writer, the Watch were indignant about being confused with the Legion, the Legion explained the chain of command rested with the Elder Council, the Elder Council were at first too preoccupied with sifting through aa score of pretenders to keep the Empire fully sewn together, never mind hear petitions. After the Council of the First Year there was more stability, but they seemed hard-pressed to agree on mealtimes unless the Potentate weighed in, and the Potentate simply did not entertain solicitors of Lathenil's stature. Only the newspaper outright cast aspersions on his account, but the light air of the others' dismissals did not precisely indicate belief.
But there had been enough avenues that he had been able to believe one of them might not be a dead end. Perversely, the thing that had kept him the most in hope was that during his time in the city, he had narrowly escaped lightning-blasts from a market rooftop, a dagger on the docks, and a poisoned venison haunch at the Tiber Septim Hotel. It meant, he believed, that someone at least was heeding him, even if they kept it to themselves lest the same befall them.
But it was not fear of the Thalmor that rebuffed Lathenil's inquiries in the encampment outside Bravil. There was no room for anything so political.
The wisps had begun to feed on the refugees. Vvardenfell itself lay in ash, and most of its people dead beneath it – including anyone who might have had a close look at the Red Mountain. He knew that only the Thalmor stood to benefit from the catastrophe – the Thalmor and the Argonians, to be exacting, but Altmer were stirring things up in Black Marsh, too. He knew, too, that their magic was capable of effecting the eruption. Likely, though, that was all the knowledge he would ever have.
He was glad to have a different purpose in the city.
When it came to good accommodations in the city, there really were none. Before getting to business, on the chance he'd need to stay a while, he'd spent some time in the ordinary of the Lonely Suitor and drawn the innkeep into a discussion of the competition. Of the many insults Gilgondorin at Silverhome-on-the-Water earned, none suggested an inclination to play informant for Thalmor assassins, but the Lonely Suitor still seemed a better bargain: the rough crowd it was reputed for had died down in recent months, Lathenil held to no food he didn't cook himself since his near-poisoning, and either way you slept in a wooden room no doubt slowly rotting away from the festering swamp.
A downstairs flat practically sinking into the strait, though, seemed less desirable than most. Perhaps that was why it had been chosen. The post, and the wooden sign that hung from it, bearing crossed swords and a stag and reading THE BRAVIL GALLANTS, were of newer make than the rest – newer also than the two years the organization had operated, if Lathenil were to judge. Perhaps at first, it had not been advisable to advertise.
Lathenil, in the interest of having every advantage he could, cracked the door open a fraction of an inch, sat casually against the wall, and listened in.
"-ever wonder if he wouldn't give us so much trouble if we hadn't roughed up his son?" came a mer's contralto.
A bluff-sounding man answered, "Maybe he wouldn't and maybe he would, but I can't think you brought me in so I could make exceptions for Counts' sons."
"No indeed. I'm only... frustrated. Bad enough when I had to lie for Ocato on his account, but..." This was indeed Vienne, then. The Champion of Cyrodiil, on whom his newest scheme rested – though it was somewhat discouraging to hear that the Count of Bravil had accurately reported her opinion of the Potentate.
"I still don't understand why you'd tell Terentius anything you didn't want repeated."
"Oh, let him repeat as he likes," said Vienne. "But not as a matter of state. You work with what you have – nobody better is asking for the job, you know that, Itius. But I swear, if that man doesn't relent – or if poor Indarys doesn't recover and we do get Count Farwil in Cheydinhal – then not only will I put in a good word for Ocato, I'll petition to the bastard myself."
Itius chuckled. "No wonder Ocato doesn't allow more people to get on speaking terms with him, if you're a sample. Vienne – no, I don't agree with Terentius – but let's try playing to his perspective. Dunmer brothers and sisters they may be, but even I could tell straight off you've never been raised in the Tribunal tradition. They stopped daedra worship barely a decade ago, assuming they stopped it at all; of course he's uneasy about throwing open the gates."
"Azura, most of them. I've served Azura myself, and I still think it was the best choice I could have made at the time."
"Yes, I know. But to Terentius, and most of the locals... well, daedra are daedra. And Mephala's popular enough in Morrowind. It's not all so benign."
"Well, no," said Vienne grudgingly. "But, Itius, I've seen Camoran's Paradise. Their hearts don't belong to their daedric princes, whatever they believe. If we show them example and kindness-"
"Example and kindness. Is that what you wanted from me back in Prison District?"
Silence.
"I'm sorry," said Itius quietly. "I didn't mean for it to come out that way. You didn't force me to go along with it, you know. And as I hear it, the only other task you've thought yourself unequal to was going through a doorway directly into madness itself. Which probably amounts to about the same thing, come to think of it. But –" Itius cleared his throat. "Supposing there's a Mythic Dawn presence in the camp, for instance – what exactly would be the difference?"
Vienne's voice, when it came, sounded carefully meted out. "First impressions, for one thing. Lack of urgency, for another. And if they start killing people, I'll have no trouble responding in kind."
"I really don't think you want things to get to that juncture."
Vienne sighed. "All right. I take your point. Well, the refugees are new to this place, after all. Perhaps it's not quite time for our best undercover man to give up the game..."
"I'll transmit that to the Count, then. Let's hope it satisfies him – I don't like leaving them to the wisps any more than you do."
As it sounded as though Itius was getting set to leave, Lathenil got to his feet (it was second nature, now, for him to do so from any position without putting his hands to the ground – it wasn't a skill he'd yet had need of, but he anticipated the Thalmor to continue being fonts of surprise and thus did his best to compete) and entered the building.
The Bravil Gallants' headquarters were a rather cramped combination of a clerk's office, a larder and an armory. At back, a fairly new stairway upward ended in the sturdiest doorway he'd seen in this town. Vienne herself eyed him from a prominent but unadorned desk, her hair (a strange Dunmer auburn) loose and somewhat frazzled, in a boiled-leather ensemble with the Bravil Gallants insignia pressed into it.
"Good evening, stranger," she said in a voice both ringing and rote. "What is your business with the Gallants?"
"Now I know you're overworked," commented Itius, a stocky, mousy-haired Imperial, who was evidently seeing that a few empty packs were loaded before he left. "He's not here for the Gallants. Look at him, he's just about tripped over that loose floorboard because he thought you'd be wearing your Blades-and-Dragon gear."
Vienne smiled wryly. "The not-to-be-trifled-with getup," she explained to Lathenil. "Haven't needed it in years, not since... ah..."
"Goldwine Pretender, I think?" said Itius.
"Yes, I think that would be it." She shook her head as an irritated carthorse might. "If ever you wanted the mark of an adventurer, stranger, there you are. A career in adventure means you defend the life of your good friend the Count and have trouble remembering the precise details afterward. What did you want with me, then?"
The question was put far less graciously than the one pertaining to her organization.
"Champion – I suppose you don't like to be called that, do you?" he put in hastily.
Vienne's level of aggravation only increased. "Well, it suits me better than Hero of Kvatch in any event. My only serious objection to the term is it came from Ocato." (Having heard Terentius' remarks when he was fomenting for a new Potentate, Lathenil gathered this was a very serious objection.) "Here they call me Dame Vienne, mainly, but I've long since learned that these appellations are entirely out of my control. Just get out with it, will you?"
Lathenil always did prefer not to beat about the bush. "All right. Dame Vienne, I come to ask that what you have done in Bravil, you begin in Alinor, with extreme vigilance, backed by a contingent of Aldmeri mer. There is rot at the highest levels in that city that threatens all Summerset – the races of man, the Empire – already, it has spilled beyond the borders-"
"Vienne," said Itius warningly, "do you remember your old friend in Skingrad?"
"Yes, but I don't know how you reached the subject," said Vienne dismissively, but her expression did not soften when she turned toward Lathenil. "So, stranger, you intend to save the world. Time is on your side, you're one of the first takers, best of luck. I hope you are more ruthless than I."
"But-" Lathenil had steeled himself for rejection, but he hadn't anticipated this base sophistry. "The ruthless can, it is true, thwart serious threats, but it is almost an inevitability that they go on to threaten – do –" He couldn't contain himself. "Do you imagine it was ruthlessness that ended the Great Anguish!"
"I imagine," said Vienne quietly, "that my lack of it came within a hair's breadth of wrecking all."
Lathenil saw it, now. The name had not been uttered, but even half a decade gone, the ghost of Martin Septim was a constant, cold presence at her shoulder.
He drew a deep breath. "Dame Vienne. When first I came to the mainland, to Anvil-"
A Redguard male in common workwear stomped through the door, with a mission written all over his face.
"Gogan," said Vienne at once. "It's not Lessa?"
"Oh, she's a trial," said Gogan, with a misty smile that said he didn't mean a word of it. "No, it's that someone's been stirring up trouble at the encampment – all but shaking the refugees to hear something indicating that Red Mountain was an Altmer plot – oddly enough, he was an Altmer himself –" It was then that Gogan noticed whom Vienne was talking to.
"Get out," said Vienne, coldly and simply.
Lathenil stood, but determined to make his protest. "Champion, if there is anything I can do to make amends..."
"The Gallants will no longer permit your presence in the county. If you truly wish to make amends, rather than to expound upon your theory and compel me to abandon this city, I have a dozen quivers, carrying fifty silver arrows apiece. You may deliver them to Artheyn at the encampment on your way out."
A poor counter, after what the Thalmor had done to them, but it was better, at least, than accomplishing nothing at all. Lathenil nodded his assent; Vienne indicated she had something to discuss with Gogan.
"So, how about that old friend in Skingrad?" he heard Itius say drily, as he managed to get the last of the quivers through the narrow door without damage.
"Well, perhaps," Vienne admitted. "But there is no good reason for the embargo to go on as long as it has. Morrowind, Black Marsh, now Summerset... Itius, if our task is to rebuild Tamriel, we're not doing a very good job."