I know it's been a long time since I updated, and I can't make any promises for future speed. Life is simply too hectic for that, but I will reiterate my promise to finish the story in as timely a manner as possible. Thanks for your support via reviews.

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Chapter 37: Rude Interruptions

"You're no match for me!" the boy gleefully shouted, brandishing his broom like a sword as he jumped about the empty foyer.

"Pyrus, are you done sweeping in there yet?" a voice demanded from the neighboring room, and the child froze, an annoyed sigh escaping him as he set bristles back to the floor. Why did his taskmaster forever interrupt at the most inopportune moments? He'd just been about to slay the vile intruder, and what a bloody, story-worthy event that would have been. Now, if Lady Lucretia were here, she'd allow him to kill and then work, but she was out for the day.

"Pyrus, you answer me, boy."

"Yes, ma'am," he halfheartedly replied. "It's almost done."

"Good. Go to the kitchen and help scrub the cookery when you're done." The boy's sweeping was notably lax as he frowned at the floor, the edges of the broom constantly grazing the tips of his scuffed shoes as he daydreamed. Lord Arelius had told him that he was important in protecting Portia, but so far, all he'd done was vanquish dust, which was hardly becoming a protector. Then again, Portia had said that he needed to pay attention.

Snap to it, he chided himself, raking eyes over the room and searching for anything suspicious, but there was nothing to be found. With growing disappointment, he propped the broom against the wall and wiped hands on his trousers. There was nothing here—nothing at all. Chalk up another day of boring routine, except...the boy's eyes brightened as he noticed a small parcel, wrapped and carefully set on the edge of a tall, thin table. Lucretia always had the servants keep an arrangement of flowers and silver candlesticks on the table to brighten the foyer, and the box was jarringly out of place amid the lovely display. Someone had obviously left the package where it didn't belong, meaning that he could personally deliver it to Arelius to prove his observational skills.

Hands gripped the edge of package, and Pyrus was about to lift it when he paused, eyes wandering over a small, stained corner of the paper wrapping. The lacquered tabletop beneath the stain was also damp with a dark substance, and running a finger through it, the boy stared wide-eyed as he held the digit aloft to find crimson on cream skin. Heart racing with both excitement and fear, he was rooted in place as his eyes glued onto the once seemingly innocent delivery.

"Boy, how many times do I have to tell you to not dillydally?" The elderly servant was wiping floured hands on her apron, but her actions slowed when Pyrus held out his finger. "Ah, come here and I'll get you patched up. What did you do this time?"

"Nothing," he said, pointing to the package. The stain was spreading across the wrapping, and Pyrus watched, transfixed as it happened. It wasn't until someone shouted and a hand landed on his shoulder that he tore his gaze away. Who had been inside the house?

***************

The piece of paper in his hand was a formality that did more to preserve his cover than legalize his actions as Arelius cut across the street in full armor. Permission to search property was not a standard or necessary convention in the empire, but written approval was a wise decision when the target had some influence or wealth, for like it or not, there were ways of getting guards fired when they offended the wrong people. In this, the Legion Commander was much more supportive of his captains when they sought his sanction in investigations, although it wasn't strictly required. Either way, Arelius planned to keep the man informed in the vaguest sense so that securing his enemies would be easier when the time came—that, and he wanted his superior to block a trial for and public knowledge of the Mythic Dawn. The Blades needed to finish this business and bury the bodies without comment.

"Don't touch anything that looks enchanted," Arelius cautioned the two guards flanking him. "And don't act overly aggressive. Take your time and do a thorough job." This wasn't a shakedown or a a quest to find evidence, for he was certain that Horace and Cassius wouldn't leave incriminating items where they could be found, but he could picture Tamil below his feet, navigating the sewers with a singleminded intensity as she discovered the trapdoor leading into the basement where she'd once been cornered. She'd been thrilled when he'd told her to grab her weapons and get moving, especially on such short notice, for the woman did like her excitement.

Knocking on Horace's front door, Arelius felt nothing but cold, hardened displeasure as he waited and recalled a very bloody delivery. Pyrus would probably be jumping at shadows for weeks, the poor child, and the boy had been distressed in thinking that he'd failed to notice an intruder. So someone wished to frighten his household? Sharp, green eyes pinned a servant in place as the door before him swung inward.

"Welcome, sir," the servant nervously greeted, taking in the crest of command that spread across Arelius's breastplate. "How may I be of assistance?"

"Stand aside and don't interfere," Arelius stated, brushing by the flustered man without a thought. It would take more than a freshly packaged heart to scare him and his family, and by the end of the afternoon, the Mythic Dawn would know that.

*****************

"Of all the fetching times that this could happen..." Horace grumbled beneath his breath, handsome features marred by concern as he hurriedly knocked on the guest room's door. He didn't even bother waiting for a response as he rattled off his words. "Be ready. We have company. Guards." Hopefully the prince would stay in his room and not antagonize the visitors, for Horace could easily envision the ensuing disaster and grudge that the authorities would bear. It was definitely better if Mehrunes stayed where he wouldn't be a problem, and if Ruined Cloak so much as poked his head out of the basement, Horace's hair would go grey. Damn it, but he was a conspirator, not a damned babysitter for reckless and bloodthirsty monsters!

His feet pounded down the stair, worried face schooling itself into indignation and anger as he reached the last step.

"Good day, Horace Pantrov." Damn it all to Oblivion. Not only were guards in his home, but Arelius was here. The very man who they assumed spearheaded the Blades' attempts to thwart their plans was standing in his living room, looking determined and calm as he leafed through a display book on Imperial architecture.

"How can I be of service, sir?" Horace asked. "This is a most rude way to enter a man's home." He heard a door open upstairs, and his nerves tightened as he realized that Mehrunes was heading for the stairs, but the prince paused at the top to eavesdrop, advancing no further. Thank whatever gods might be listening that there were small reprieves in life.

"I'm here to search your home," Arelius stated, motioning the guards to continue into the next room. "We'll be done shortly." Horace couldn't believe the audacity of this man. Did the Blades have any idea what kind of forces they were tampering with? No, probably not, for how many people knew that Mehrunes was in the city let alone this house? Portia probably knew, but Horace didn't know the extent of her knowledge, and again, he grew annoyed with Mehrunes, for whatever Portia knew was likely the prince's fault. The man couldn't resist dropping heavy innuendos around the woman.

Horace felt his mouth run dry as he watched Arelius casually work, for the sudden possibility of the Blades having pinpointed this location for more aggressive attention was disquieting. He'd known that the enemy was getting closer, and that he was suspected of having connections to the Dawn by now, but no one had suspected that the enemy would act so boldly. At least there was nothing for them to find.

You've got the upper hand, Horace, he reminded himself. They're grasping at straws if they've resorted to this. Posture easing into a much more confident stance, he pointedly moved toward Arelius and closed the book.

"And what am I being investigated for?" he asked.

"The Watch retains its right to investigate without consideration for your comfort or inquiries," Arelius curtly replied.

"You can't do that," Horace retorted. He knew the law; he'd studied the idiotic legal system or lack thereof since he was a child. "You and I both know that unless you've a warrant from the Legion Commander or Council, you can't search an aristocrat's home without disclosing the reasons. I demand to know what I've done to bring you here." His response was the paper that was thrust into his hands, and he didn't need to read the article to know what it said. Tossing it aside in disgust, he wondered if higher authorities than Arelius were also suspicious of his connections to the Mythic Dawn. Was it too late to back out if things went south?

"You'd do well to cooperate," Arelius told him. "Now, are you going to show me upstairs, or shall I show myself?" Horace locked eyes with the captain, brown meeting green as he imagined 'Cassius' speaking with this man who was as tough and straight as a rod of iron.

"This way," he relented, breaking the stare and turning. Let the legion waste its time, because they weren't going to find anything.

*******************

Tamil's light steps were inaudible amid the dark corridors of the sewers—so light, in fact, that even most rats failed to detect her presence as she moved, red eyes dancing with promise. She'd waited for Arelius to agree to her plan for what felt like eternity, and the man had finally relented, unexpectedly awakening her mid-morning to tell her to move quickly. He wasn't known for enacting a plan on such short notice, but she'd counted her lucky stars as he pulled a warrant from his office. She wondered how long he'd had the thing, for he'd never said a word about visiting the legion commander.

The dunmer stopped as she turned an ear toward her left, a heavy scratching and tearing noise sounding from below in the sewer's filthy channel. She crept closer to the edge, curious as she discerned a hoard of mudcrabs, all clawing and ripping at the corpse of a plainly dressed young woman who bobbed in the putrid waters. The figure seemed fairly familiar, and as the body rolled with a crab's particularly sharp tug, Tamil's eyes narrowed, recognizing the beaked nose and large eyes of Agatha, a servant girl newly hired by Lucretia only last month. Most telling was the gaping hole cut in the girl's left breast, the wound precise and pale in the dim lighting of nighteye.

Tamil gave the body one last glance as it was pulled lower by scavengers, and then continued onward in search of entranceways. She knew the sewers well enough that the seemingly endless tunnels weren't disorientating, and she knew for certain that she was beneath Horace's neighborhood. The thin passage to her right led toward the basement of Crassio, where she'd once gone to deliver a sensitive shipment order, and from his home, Horace's was a mere three houses. She counted her steps, picturing the street above as she slowed to a more cautious pace.

Here, she decided, eyes happily alighting to the narrow staircase that led upward toward an oddly angled archway. The room at the base of the stairs was interesting enough with the odd design drawn in what looked like white chalk on the floor's center. Tamil memorized the symbol so that she could replicate it later, moving about the space with one ear forever turned toward the stairwell. There were crates here, bedrolls, and candles, but nothing delighted her more than the red robe that she found inside a small chest. She pushed the bundle into the bag across her shoulder, and then uncorked a small, green bottle that had been hidden by the cloak.

Just wait until I get my hands on that skinny son of a bitch, she darkly thought, the telltale bitter scent beneath her nose making her quickly replace the cork. Considering the odd properties of the poison that she associated with the Mythic Dawn, it wouldn't surprise her if breathing the concoction had damaging effects, and so the Blades' alchemists would be pleased to get their hands on something like this. Another potion for the log, and the bottle disappeared safely between the folds of the the red cloak.

She moved to the stairs and slowly began ascending, knowing that Arelius would take as long as possible to search the manor for her sake. What she had already found would be adequate in securing their stance and suspicions, but the door was right there, and in another few steps, she could take a peak. Perhaps no one was around, being preoccupied with the intruders upstairs, but then again, maybe he was here. A warning shot down Tamil's spine as she reminded herself that if she died down here, the evidence would never reach the Blades, and Arelius would be handicapped, but she wouldn't die. In fact, she almost hoped that her mysterious, cloaked enemy was here, just to fully satisfy her curiosity.

One look and then leave, she reluctantly cautioned herself. You've higher obligations. When younger, she'd almost failed several assignments due to unnecessary prying, and with a sour frown, she remembered a scar across her back that she'd gained from an older assassin upon being seen during a mission. She wouldn't have been seen and brought dogs down upon them if she hadn't lingered to see how the murdered son's spiteful father would react to the body, and that wasn't the only job that had cost her blood. She'd always considered herself to have outgrown such unprofessional flaws, but now, as she tiptoed onto the step's landing, she admitted that old tendencies died hard.

Her hands cracked open the old, damp door that separated the sewers from Horace's basement, and one red eye pressed to the crack. There was faint torchlight beyond, illuminating a small, stone room that she had never before seen, and someone was standing with his back toward her. She watched with increasing fascination as the man, who was cloaked head-to-toe in black, slowly removed his gloves to reveal pale, white hands. Then his hood was thrown back, and although his face was turned away from her, she could tell from his thick, grey-streaked hair that he was either an Imperial or a Nord.

The robe fell away, revealing lean, naked shoulders that sloped into a gracefully curved back that didn't bear a single scar. The man's body was impeccable from the subtle strength of his form to the ease with which he walked about in his black pants, and Tamil couldn't help but feel that there was something unnatural about her rival. As he walked toward a low shelf, she noted that his muscled body appeared young and healthy, but on closer inspection, she saw that the skin around his collar bones was pulled taut and looked painfully stretched, and there were noticeable wrinkles around his abdomen. He might move beautifully, but his body was an odd contrast between young and old.

Biding her time, she crouched and waited to see what the man was doing, and when he uncorked a flask of some dark substance, she crouched lower. Perhaps it was more poison, but no, he merely downed the entire bottle, setting it back on the shelf with a deep gulp of air as he began to shake and chant. With a mixture of apprehension and intrigue, Tamil noted how his words echoed about the room with a strange resonance and tone that reminded her of necromancy, death, and the dark, endless depths of the night. He convulsed, almost falling to the floor, before lifting himself on shaky hands, head thrown back in a grimace as his words faded.

What did he just...? Tamil's thoughts were interrupted as the man easily stood to retrieve his cloak, and was it her imagination, or was his gait even smoother than before? The wrinkles were gone, the hair a rich, dark auburn, and his arms flexing testily. By the Nine, what was he, and what the hell had just happened? She watched him leave the room, and then darted inside to grab one of his flasks before beating a hasty retreat. She'd already risked the mission with her spying, and she wouldn't risk further problems until later.

Running through the sewers, she smiled and congratulated herself for having pulled one over on her opponent. Hopefully he noticed the missing flask when he returned to his chambers.

****************

He needed to get Mehrunes out of the house, and Horace was aware of little else as his eyes shifted between Arelius and the daedric prince. From the moment that the two had laid eyes on one another, they'd paused, serious expressions squaring off as if measuring each other's worth, and no doubt they were. Mehrunes was casually draped in a chair beside his bed as the captain marched inside, and if looks could kill, Horace knew that Arelius would be a bloody stain of a memory by now. Couldn't Mehrunes at least act like he was a polite diplomat?

"I don't like people going through my belongings," Mehrunes commented, propping his boots on the edge of the bed and sipping cider from a silver mug.

"I'm afraid that there's no option, citizen," Arelius officially replied, paying the man no heed as he opened a closet and rifled through the clothing. Mehrunes glanced at Horace, who frowned and shook his head. Please, just let the prince act lowly this once.

"Lady Portia Augustine lives at your home, does she not?" Horace wanted to hit his head off of the wall, perhaps even give Caranya another go in bed—anything but enduring this painfully stilted conversation that was borderline threatening. Mehrunes might be a prince, but even princes couldn't act like they ran the show when they were in disguise. At least Ruined Cloak was tucked away in the basement. Of course, if one of the guards went down there...Damn. He was having a drink once his unwanted visitors left.

"She is a temporary guest," Arelius allowed, not bothering to look at Mehrunes as he moved toward a smaller dresser and began opening drawers.

"You must be pleased to have such wonderful company." Horace remained blank-faced, but he inwardly scowled, wondering what the prince's obsession with the woman was. She was an enemy, and yet he spoke of her like she was some type of precious treasure, even ignoring more important business to pursue and harass the Blade. If he'd nab the woman and be done with it, than the manor could return to is former emptiness, which sounded like pure bliss as Mehrunes mockingly smiled at Arelius. Where had the prince been last night, anyway? He'd come back at the oddest hour, and he'd refused to talk about it.

"I hope that she has no plans to leave the city," Mehrunes continued.

"Not that I know of," Arelius dismissed. "Although she may decide to leave whenever she wishes. What's in here?" Arelius's hand landed on a locked chest, and Mehrunes rose from his seat, eyes flashing dangerously as the captain remained unwavering.

"It's personal," Mehrunes nearly growled, making Horace shoot the man a warning glance.

"Open it," Arelius ordered. Gods, this was getting worse by the second, and the way that Mehrunes' fingers were curling, as if he might hit the officer...

"Cassius," Horace interrupted. "Perhaps you'd best take care of the errand that you mentioned earlier." Mehrunes turned baleful eyes on him, clearly telling him what he thought of the suggestion. "I can handle things here." Don't ruin this for us, my lord.

For a moment, he was sure that the prince would outright refuse, but then Mehrunes grudgingly relented, standing back as Horace pulled a key from his belt. There was nothing incriminating in that chest, and he was relieved that Mehrunes could ignore his territorial nature enough that he wouldn't jeopardize their work. Sometimes Horace was convinced that Mehrunes was too hotheaded and selfishly flippant to ever successfully conquer Tamriel. His confidence in the immortal was slipping, but admitting or even insinuating his thoughts would likely get his throat slit, and by none other than that bastard freak slithering around somewhere beneath his feet.

"I'll return later," Mehrunes stated before turning toward Arelius. "Do give Portia my regards, and tell her that I'd love to have dinner again. Perhaps I'll come to call on her, if you don't mind." Stoic as he was, there was something undeniably forceful about the look that Arelius was leveling at Mehrunes, but the prince merely grinned. "Yes. I think I'll do that." The door shut behind the daedra, and Horace almost breathed a sigh of relief.

"Your friend seems rather aggravating," Arelius commented.

"You have no idea," Horace muttered, unlocking the chest to reveal a collection of daggers, but when he looked up, Arelius was staring at something else entirely, and he followed the man's sight to the painting that hung near the door. The dark landscape was an odd image to display in a guest room, but Horace had left it be since his mother had bought and loved the piece. She'd certainly loved it a hell of lot more than him.

"An interesting choice," the captain mused.

"My mother's taste, not mine, sir," Horace clarified. He hoped that this torture was over soon.