Chapter 8 - Pastries and Parties
It was dawn in Bliss. The pale gold sky was shot through with streaks of pink and aqua. The inhabitants of New Sheoth were beginning to emerge and go about their daily madness.
On the roof of The Choosy Beggar, Sheogorath was enjoying a cup of tea and a pain-au-chocolat, accompanied by a heron and a pair of mangy old basketball shoes. After nibbling all the pastry from around the centre, Sheogorath threw the chocolate to the floor, where it was quickly devoured by the heron.
The shoes burped.
Taking a sip from the dainty china teacup, Sheogorath gave a protracted sigh, and summoned Haskill.
"Yes, my lady?" came the bored voice of the Breton.
"Haskill, long time no see," she said.
"Indeed, my lady. It has been many months since you last graced the Shivering Isles with your presence," he deadpanned.
"No it hasn't, Haskill."
"But you just admitted it – you said 'Long time – '"
"No I didn't."
With a forlorn sigh, Haskill capitulated. "Of course, my lady. My mistake. To what do I owe this dubious pleasure?"
"I wish to hold a Daedric Party."
For a moment, Haskill was speechless. "I don't think that's a good idea, my lady. You see, your apotheosis notwithstanding, the other daedric princes regard you as variously a joke, an insult or a curiosity. Sometimes a curiously insulting joke."
"What's your point?"
"Just that you are not popular in Oblivion," said Haskill, brutally. "Azura might turn up, even Meridia, but other than that…"
"Haskill, you wield the truth like a blunt claymore," said Sheogorath. "But even just Azura would be fine…"
"That would be more of a sermon than a party…"
"See this scroll?" she handed him a piece of parchment with the incantation for a teleportation scroll transcribed in ancient Velothi.
"Intriguing…" began Haskill.
"I want somebody to recreate the spell."
"How prosaic," muttered Haskill. "Very well, Loria – erm… I mean Sheogorath, I shall organise the invitations."
Ignoring Haskill's rather blatant slip of the tongue, Sheogorath turned her attention to the pair of old shoes; picking up crumbs from her plate and flicking them onto the floor, she sniggered as the shoes hurried over to hoover them all up.
xox
Lucien relaxed upon a sofa, occasionally taking a sip out of the large glass in his left hand. A fire blazed in a hearth in front of him. His dark eyes scanned the lines of the tome he was reading, as Kushiel stood motionless, staring into the darkened corners of their new hideout.
Lucien was really very pleased with the place he had discovered; it was a disused fane, located under the currently active temple. Kushiel had guided him to the entrance, which had obviously not been breached in centuries. Not only was it cool and dark, it was also decorated with the most exquisite carvings and paintings. Lucien had always appreciated the finer things in life, whether it was art, literature, music, food or drink. Indeed, he had yet to meet anyone with intelligence that didn't.
He turned a page in his book. Fascinating. The tome which he had removed from the tomb was a history of the country he was in. Apparently Nefernis was the founder of this city, and the last queen of Kush. Some of the text was faded and blurred from the centuries, and Lucien sighed in frustration – key parts of the text were obscured.
The passage Lucien was reading now was about the rights of succession – the throne of Kush was not passed down through birthright as in Cyrodiil, but the current queen's successor would be chosen by some impartial and indisputable method. Nefernis had been the last to be chosen for some reason – the text here was obscured. The rightful queen could always be known by the presence of something called 'The Royal Shadow'.
Lucien's eyes drifted upwards from the text as he recalled the paintings on the walls of the tomb depicting Nefernis; always accompanied by a shadow. His gaze alighted on the frozen figure of Kushiel, standing in the firelight. His shadow.
As the realisation dawned on him, he suddenly thought he had been rather rash in revealing Kushiel in front of so many people when he first arrived. She was the symbol of the rightful ruler of Kush! No wonder the guards were taken aback. This could be a problem; he guessed now that he had cause much more of a stir than he originally thought.
Though, thought Lucien, I don't think I could feasibly pass for a Queen. Damn, was he glad Arquen wasn't around to hear this.
"Master," Kushiel spoke with a voice like the whispering wind. "Someone calls."
"Ah, my first customer. What excellent timing." His sarcasm was lost on the spirit. "Send me there."
xox
Shaila paced back and forth, wringing her delicate hands nervously. She knew what she was doing was wrong, but what alternative had she? She could run away from her life here, that was true, but where would she go? To one of the meagre villages outside the city? Life outside the Capital's walls was no life at all, though. Unless she went to the other place.
She shuddered at the thought. Though no doubt after tonight I will fit right in there, she thought bitterly. But it was no use; she had already performed the ritual. But perhaps it is a joke? Perhaps it will not work? Part of her hoped that the summoning wouldn't work, but another part, the desperate part, knew it was her only hope to escape a life she dreaded.
What if it's a trick? She thought, suddenly panicked. What if the guard thought it up as a trap to catch murderers? Her heartbeats were now coming painfully fast. She was just about to turn and flee into the night, when a deep, rich voice floated out of the dark.
"Leaving so soon, milady?"
xox
Lucien waited for a moment to allow his eyes to grow accustomed to the dark. His contact was here, he saw. A young woman; obviously nervous, she was slight, of average height, not unattractive. Further inspection revealed her to have waist length dark hair, olive skin and green eyes. She also appeared to be about to flee.
"Leaving so soon, milady?" he said.
She gave a gratifying little gasp and turned to face him.
"My name is Lucien Lachance, and I am a speaker for –", Lucien paused, what was he a speaker for? The Black Hand? "For the Dread Lord Sithis," he compromised. "You desire the death of another, and we are only too happy to oblige. Tell me of the target."
The woman seemed to calm down when she was not asked to divulge anything of herself, and began to speak. "His name is Galadon Krichen," she began. "He is a member of the council. My parents have arranged for us to be married, but he is a vile man. He is bad tempered and hairy, he smells, he's rude, he's got rotten teeth, and he makes crude noises in public!"
Lucien's iron discipline prevented the corners of his mouth from twitching. Truly, he thought, Oblivion hath no fury like a woman scorned. Out loud he said; "then he shall die. The price is three hundred juits."
The woman winced, but handed over three heavy bags of coins. "This is –"…
"Strictly confidential, of course," finished Lucien.
The woman seemed reassured, and a smile tugged at her lips as she bid him farewell.
Ah, this is what it's all about, thought the assassin contentedly.
xox
Loria shifted in her throne. She felt slightly discomforted at receiving fifteen acceptances to her invitations. Hadn't Haskill said she was unpopular? Were the other Daedric Princes conspiring against her? She was willing to bet Molag Bal was up to something nasty. Probably involving cream pies.
She tossed another stuffed squirrel onto the barbeque.