THE IMPERIAL CITY
4th of Last Seed 4E 168

THE BLACK HORSE COURIER:
DATE SET FOR EMPEROR'S FUNERAL
By Cyrellius Sintav

An official statement from the High Chancellor released this morning has confirmed that the state funeral of the Emperor Attrebus Mede II will take place within the next two weeks. Though, for security reasons, no further details could be given, the High Chancellor has stated that preparations are well underway, and that Prince Titus, the late emperor's heir, is expected to arrive the capital from the Skyrim border–

"Are you done now, mister?"

Christophe looked up suddenly from his newspaper. The scullion boy was a poor, awkward lad with crooked teeth and pimples, like many of the other Waterfront urchins, though he had a noticeable air of adolescent boredom hanging about him.

"Well, yes, sure. Thank you," Christophe replied, still in his morning haze. The boy took the bowl, and tossed it carelessly with the other dirty plates on the cart. Christophe hadn't actually finished eating, but the bread seemed slightly stale and the slaughterfish stew today was a bit too watered down for his tastes. "You can have the bread too, if you want. I haven't touched it," Christophe said, handing the small plate to him. The poor boy looked like he needed the food. The boy took it though, instead of heading back to the kitchens, he lingered expectantly by the table, eyeing Christophe, then the bread, then Christophe again.

Finally, it clicked. "Oh, of course, sorry." Christophe reached into his pocket, and handed him two septims. "Here's your tip. Sorry it's not much, but you know…" The boy simply stared blankly at the two coins before pocketing them.

"Thanks mister…" he grunted, before wandering back to the kitchens. Christophe sighed. He supposed anyone would be disappointed too, with a job like this and a tip like that. The King and Queen Tavern wasn't exactly the most glamorous establishment in the Imperial City.

Putting the newspaper back on the rack, Christophe wiped his mouth with a napkin and stood up to put on his jacket. It was a fine woolen city coat with shiny silver buttons and little silver trimmings on the edges – probably cost more than what most people saw in a month. But, like most of the clothes he owned, it was only a hand-me-down from his late father – Divines keep him – not to mention the cuffs looked like they were in serious need of repair again.

"Morning, Gertild," Christophe greeted the Nord woman polishing the counter, "I'm heading off a bit early today, but thanks for the food. Oh, and morning to you too." Christophe waved to one of the other boarders at the Tavern: a retired Redguard sailor, who was currently lounging on one of the gaudy throne-shaped armchairs decking the food hall. He waved back lazily.

"Hang on, Christophe, before you go," Gertild suddenly called out, "Just wanted to remind you final payment's due tonight. Fifty septims." Christophe smacked his forehead. The rent!

"Oh gods, yes, of course! Yes, I– um, " he said, fumbling around for his coin purse. "I have it right here. Ten, twenty, thirty, forty, forty-five– "He paused. Fifty septims, with only thirty left over for the rest of the week. Christophe rummaged desperately through his pockets. Empty. He cursed quietly. "Look, I'm so, so sorry about this, Gertild," he said pleadingly, "But can it just wait 'till the end of the month? I'm applying for this job today. It pays quite well."

"Are you gonna get it?"

"Well," he began. "Yes, if things go my way. I'm well suited for this line of work, and I'm sure my soon-to-be employers will see that." Christophe looked her calmly in the eye, trying to appear confident. Well, he sure damn hoped they'd see that. He had spent a good part of his inheritance travelling all the way to the Imperial City just to work for their company; he wasn't about to let that go to waste.

Suddenly, the Redguard sailor burst into laughter, slapping his thigh.

"Stendarr preserve us…" he mocked. The publican just sighed and shook her head.

"Everyone's gotta pay on time Christophe, sorry," she said. "The King and Queen doesn't pay for itself, and young Lewin doesn't work for free– " There was the sound of wooden plates spilling all over the floor, followed by a torrent of curse words from behind the kitchen door. "Dammit, boy!" she bellowed, "Can you do nothing right?"

"Sorry, sorry!" came the eventual reply. The Redguard cackled again in his chair.

"Useless …" Gertild muttered under her breath, before turning back to face Christophe. "Like I said," she continued, "The King and Queen needs upkeep. I'm trying to keep this place the way my poor Flinjar left it, Talos rest him." The Redguard looked up from the tobacco pipe he was now trying to light.

"Well, can't say I knew 'im, but he had taste, I'll give him that," he said between breaths, before blowing out a long, thick stream of smoke. "You lad–" he turned to Christophe– "You're from Daggerfall, right?"

Christophe nodded.

"Heh. Thought so. Straight off the cart." The Redguard snorted. "I've met plenty of Bretons on my travels and let me tell you, you Daggerfall folks are always the same." Christophe frowned. He didn't know whether to take that as an insult. "Oh no, don't take it as an insult," the Redguard explained quickly, noticing Christophe's expression. "Some nasty people might call you all snobs or flaming ponces…" He drew another breath from his pipe. "But I'm not like that."

"That's good to hear," Christophe replied dryly. The Redguard laughed.

"Really, there's a certain… erm…" He paused, looking about the room. "What's-the-word… ahem, yes. There's a certain pride about you Bretons, where even pox-ridden beggars fancy themselves the lords of their own dump– not that I'm calling you a pox-ridden beggar, lad. I'm just saying that there's a reason why you're 'ere at the King and Queen instead of slumming it at the Waterfront."

"Thank you, I suppose," Christophe replied again, out of a lack of anything better to say. The Redguard had a point though; he couldn't have handled living on the Waterfront like a beggar. By Sheor, he was from a well-to-do family and they still had standards, if a bit… temporarily embarrassed. But truth be told, he was only living at the Tavern because he couldn't afford anything better – unlike the sailor, who'd apparently willingly settled down here (though Christophe suspected that decision probably had more to do with the widowed publican than anything else).

"Yes, and even Ruswick's gotta pay if he doesn't want to be slumming it at the Waterfront, don't you, Ruswick?" Gertild said firmly. She cocked an eyebrow at him. The Redguard sailor flashed her a coy, toothless smile, and winked.

"Oh, don't ye worry about payment m'dear," Ruswick cackled again, a rasping, wheezing laugh that sent smoke tumbling out of his mouth. Gertild rolled her eyes. Christophe noticed a slight redness in her cheeks.

"Coin, Ruswick," she repeated, "And you too, Chris, sorry. I'll need that money by tonight." The Redguard grumbled and lounged back in his chair. Christophe sighed.

"Of course, Gertild," Christophe replied, "I'll just– here. I'll just give you the rent now. I'm sorry."

"All's fine, Christophe. All's fine. We've all been down on our luck."

Christophe counted the fifty septims again and, with a pang of regret, reluctantly placed them on the counter. The remaining ten septims jiggled pitifully in his coin purse as he stuffed it back into his pocket. Gertild quickly recounted the money before stashing it under the counter. Christophe heard the metallic clink of the key in the lockbox as what little coin he had was shut away forever. It was only fair, he supposed; she was only trying to make an honest living. But if he didn't get this job today, he had no idea where to find enough money to tie him over for the week, without borrowing from some back-alley usurer or resorting to measures that would earn him a month in the Imperial Dungeons.

Maybe the King and Queen Tavern was too good for his blood?

"Hey, cheer up Breton," Ruswick called out with a smirk. "This is the Imperial City. Anything's possible."

The sounds and smells of the city in its morning rush came flooding into his senses. Despite having grown up in another capital, Christophe still found himself swallowed up in the hustle and bustle of the Imperial crowd. An endless array of stalls lined the streets, stocked with all manner of goods from every corner of the province: fresh slaughterfish from Lake Rumare, fine wines and cheeses from the West Weald, fruits and vegetables from the Nibenay Valley, and crates of furs and pelts from Bruma in the far north. People from all walks of life – rich or poor, common or noble – all rushed together in one bustling mass; all of them looking to snag the best deals in the marketplace. It was all rather odd for Christophe, but a little exciting nonetheless. Back in High Rock, people usually just sent their servants out for these kinds of menial tasks.

He could barely see for all the people rushing about, but he could just make out the names of various shops as he weaved his way through the busy streets. "Stonewall Shields, Edgar's Discount Spells… the Office of Commerce– no thanks, I'm in a rush." Christophe politely brushed off a Dunmer trying to hand him a pamphlet. Merchant's Inn, A Fighting Chance… Where was it again– "Ah, here!" He crossed the pavement and turned the corner into a small side street, following it as it curved through a large stone atrium containing a few shops and offices. Above one of the doors hung a weathered wooden signboard:

THE BLACK HORSE COURIER – CYRODIIL'S OLDEST NEWSPAPER

Well, this is the place, Christophe thought, looking around. The building was a lot less grand than he expected, considering the Black Horse Courier was supposed to be the most established newspaper in Cyrodiil. The grey marble walls hadn't been scrubbed in a while, and he could see bits of old iron machinery and discarded papers lying just around the back.

Well, it definitely looked like Cyrodiil's oldest newspaper.

Nearby, two burly Orcs were unloading huge clay jugs of ink from a cart, heaving them onto the ground as if they were filled with nothing more than air. Seeing Christophe approach the door, they sniggered mean-spiritedly, eying him up like a chunk of meat. Christophe refused to look them in the eye.

Gods, he thought to himself nervously. Great-Grandmother Matilde would roll in her grave if she found out any family of hers was scrounging around for work in a place like this. Then again, according to his father, her efforts to socialise the family back to wealth had famously resulted in her being murdered during a soirée (along with all the other unfortunate guests). No, Christophe thought. He'd work for his money himself, and there was no better place to do it than here, doing something he liked.

Quickly brushing back his mousy hair with his fingers, he took a deep breath, and opened the door.

"Look boys, just dump those crates downstairs with the others. There's no room up here."

A Wood Elf was sitting at the front desk, busily scratching away at a leger with a quill. Her messy, dirty blonde hair was hastily tied up with a leather strap, and her ink-stained sleeves were scrunched right up to her elbows. She had a waifish look about her that made her seem rather approachable, but despite her demeanour, she didn't look very young. Then again, Christophe could never tell with elves.

"Basement door's open, I'm sure you can manage– " She raised her eyes momentarily and noticed Christophe standing in the doorway. "Oh, I'm sorry!" she said, quickly bolting upright in her chair. "I didn't see you there. Welcome to the Black Horse Courier. Can I help you?" She smiled, flashing her teeth.

"Um, yes, good morning," Christophe greeted back, feeling slightly perturbed, "I'm Christophe Petit. I'm looking for employment here. I heard you were recruiting?" He reached into his coat pocket, and produced a folded parchment. He'd spent a whole two weeks trying to perfect his credentials, making sure they properly reflected his good education and were as flattering as possible (within the bounds of honesty, of course).

"You heard right," she replied, taking it off his hands. "Right now what we really need are extra workers down at the press– that pays fifty a month, if you're interested." She paused, and eyed him head to toe, as if sizing him up. "But, I'm guessing you're not after that kind of work." Christophe couldn't quite put his finger on it but there was definitely something mischievous about this friendly Wood Elf. Then, to his surprise, she unfolded the parchment and began to look over it herself.

"I'm applying as a journalist," he continued, watching the Wood Elf curiously. "Preferably writing columns, but I'm willing to take on other writing jobs as well."

"Uh huh…" she muttered absentmindedly.

"Well, you'll see I've a decent amount of writing experience. I used to spend most of my summers writing religious pamphlets for the Chapel in Daggerfall…" He discreetly tried to loosen his collar. Was it just him, or was the room was feeling increasingly stuffier? He looked around. The only windows were high up on the wall and none of them were open. No wonder everyone just walks around here in their shirts, he thought, noticing a courier hurriedly brush past him. He wanted desperately to take his coat off, but decided against it for the meantime.

"Why didn't you apply at the Temple of the One then?" the Wood Elf asked after some time, "Or did you?"

Christophe paused. Something told him she was trying to catch him out. He had to consider his answer carefully.

"I wanted something a bit more from my work," he replied, "The Chapel wasn't exactly my cup of tea."

"Too boring?"

Christophe chuckled. "No, not exactly," he said, "It was a bit slow, that's all." Perhaps it was better not to mention how many times the priests chastised him for falling asleep at his desk.

Suddenly, the Wood Elf handed the parchment back to Christophe, taking him by surprise. He worriedly fumbled to put it back in his pocket. "Well, we do need writers right now," she replied, "You'll have to speak with Ja'harri about that though. He runs things here. Most people around here are busy, but I could find someone to show you up, if you'll wait just a second." Christophe relaxed a little. This was a good sign… he hoped.

As if on cue, one of the doors suddenly swung open and a middle-aged Imperial strode into the foyer, busily flicking through a leather notebook as he made his way towards the stairs.

"Just in time. Hey, Cyrellius!" Carwen called out. "Do you have a moment?" The Imperial stopped and looked up. He looked a good twenty years older than Christophe; his dark hair was flecked with streaks of grey, and crows' feet were beginning to form at the corners of his eyes. But from the way he carried himself so casually and confidently around the place, he didn't seem some disillusioned old worker, caught in the rat race of the Imperial City. If this 'Ja'harri' fellow wasn't so obviously a Khajiit, Christophe could've swore this man owned the place.

"Sure, I have a moment," he replied coolly, noticing Christophe waiting by the front desk.

"Great! Because Mister… err… Mister Petit here is looking to work as a writer here, and needs to see Ja'harri."

"Ja'harri? Sure," the Imperial replied again, "I think it'll be best if show him up." He flashed a smile at Christophe. "Cyrellius Sintav. I'm the lead journalist here at the Courier. You might've read some of my articles." He held out his hand.

"Christophe Petit," Christophe replied, a little struck. Cyrellius Sintav was quite well known, even in Daggerfall. Christophe hadn't expected to actually meet him in person like this. He returned the handshake, though a little less confidently than he had hoped. The Imperial's grip was firm and decisive. He motioned for Christophe to follow him.

"Well, " Christophe started, trailing behind the older man, "I'm very familiar with your work actually, Mister Sintav. I read your obituary for the Emperor a few days ago, and your other article this morning. I enjoyed them very much."

"Did you? Well, that's very nice. You can take your jacket off, by the way. This isn't the Palace." Christophe felt his face turn hot. He laughed nervously, quickly unbuttoning his coat and folding it over his arm.

"I've always wanted to be a journalist, you see, ever since I was a young boy," he continued, struggling to keep up with Cyrellius as they strode through the narrow hallway. "In fact, I moved all the way from Daggerfall to the Imperial City just to work for the Black Horse Courier." They turned the corner, past some other couriers carrying freshly printed bundles of newspapers.

"How old are you?" Cyrellius asked him suddenly.

"Twenty this year."

"Wow. Big risk, kid, making a move like that," the Imperial replied. He seemed slightly impressed. "You couldn't have come at a better time though. We need more writers here, and at my position, they pay well." Then, as if the Divines wanted to prove the truth of his words, they passed a windowed room filled with rows and rows of wooden work desks, most of which were unoccupied. Only a few older-looking employees remained, buried under piles of paperwork. It made Christophe feel slightly nervous. Hopefully, this wasn't the result of some kind of mass sacking in the past.

"Look, I'll level with you, just so you know exactly what you're getting into," Cyrellius began, his tone turning serious. "If this place looks relatively empty, that's because it is. This place used to run directly off Elder Council subsidies until about ten or so years ago. Then, there was a bit of scare with the Altmer down south– nothing that big, otherwise we'd all be dead, but enough that the Council had to reallocate funds towards the Legion. So, the Council cut the funds, profits dipped, people went out the door, and Ja'harri, our lovely boss who you will meet soon... let's just say, picked up some less than savoury habits."

Less than savoury habits? Perhaps it was better not to inquire about that.

"Alright," Christophe replied slowly, trying to process everything. "Gosh, it's a lot of information to take in. How… how does the Courier stay in business then?"

"It's actually quite simple. We write good stories that sell well– that's where we come in– and private benefactors. So keep everyone happy, and you'll be rich. Annoy the wrong person, and, well… just don't annoy the wrong person, alright?" The Imperial looked over at Christophe, who was standing with a slightly bewildered expression on his face. "Still think you're up for it?"

Some unwanted doubts began to creep into Christophe's mind. "This place seems to have have more internal politics than the court at Daggerfall!" he joked nervously. He desperately hoped he hadn't made a huge mistake coming here. "But I've always wanted to work at a place like the Courier. Besides, I can hardly make the trip all the way back to High Rock, can I?"

The Imperial shrugged. "No, no I suppose you can't."

"Well, is there a good chance Ja'harri will still employ me, with all these problems going on?" Christophe asked again.

"Ha. I did say we needed writers, didn't I?" Cyrellius replied dryly.

"Of course."

"And Carwen wouldn't have sent you up here is she hadn't thought Ja'harri would find you worth hiring." They finally reached the end of the hallway. At the end was a lone wooden door with the words 'Office of the Editor' were plastered ominously on the front. "So, now you can ask him yourself if you think you're worth it." He shot Christophe a wry grin, then knocked three times on the door.

"What! Who iss it…?" came a raspy voice from the other side.

"Cyrellius, with one Mister Christophe Petit. Says he's interested in working with us as a writer." Silence.

"All rrright. Let him innnn."

Christophe looked at Cyrellius worriedly. "Go on," Cyrellius beckoned, "Remember, negotiate hours first, pay later. Straighten up, and smile. Don't let him smell the fear on you."

Christophe nodded bewilderedly. Smell… the fear? By the gods, what had he gotten himself into?

"Thank you," he said meekly. Steadying himself, he placed his hand on the doorknob.

"And, by the way," the Imperial spoke, "Should everything go just as planned in there, let me be the first to formally welcome you to the team here at the Black Horse Courier."