As I materialized in my quarters in the Arcane University, I reflected on the skirmish up north. Those thugs were better trained than the average zealot, and they knew enough to use sacks of holding to transport their heavy equipment. It's simple: Just take some of those bottomless bags, fill them with goods, and cast a strong, permanent Feather spell on each one. Major space savers, unless someone forgets to mark them.

I thought the bags looked familiar, and now I realize why. The telltale materials, the magicka signatures…any quartermaster worth a damn would know they're an obsolete Black Marsh pattern. The Legion phased it out shortly before I retired. These sacks were marked for future destruction, which should've been…right around now, actually. Damned red tape delays everything.

What concerns me is how they knew to steal them. Unless security at our supply caches has gotten tighter since I left, robbing the Legion is one of the easiest jobs on Nirn. It's how I fenced—never mind. Since the Legion phases out equipment, rather than just replacing it, the thieves could've obtained the newer stuff just as easily.

So why didn't they?


Raising an army is hard enough for the government. It's worse for private individuals. For respected public figures, it's next to impossible.

I can't trust the upper echelons of the guilds I belong to. Not only do I question their loyalty, I expect them to demand to be placed in leadership positions. Cyrodiil is becoming increasingly polarized, and the damage a spy for either side could do is too great. A mistake in recruiting could end up plunging us all into a major civil war.

The cheapest option is to hire mercenaries—lots of mercenaries. Not exactly an appealing option; the difference between a mercenary and a war criminal is the difference between Morndas and Tirdas. If nothing else, those mass murderers of the Blackwood Company proved that.

When you lead several legal, highly regulated "mercenary" firms called guilds, though, recruit from your lower ranks in exchange for favors. Gee, ain't that bribery?

It is, and it isn't. When you get to the core of it, the only differences between an illegal bribe and a legal exchange of goods and services are the subjective opinions attached to either. Sometimes, you wander into a gray area, like I did with my best apprentices.

I'd expected them to ask for gold or Ayleid stones, but they apparently have brains. They want a second-generation enchanted chest, the kind that has just been cleared for production. The kind able to make ten copies of any object, unlike the one I have up in my quarters. The kind with a high potential for abuse.

"Deal," I said, "but remember, each of you is still bound by Mages Guild regulations. Abuse them, and your chest is forfeit. No counterfeiting septims, hear?"

"Yes, Arch-Mage," their Orc leader replied with a toothy, mischievous grin. "No duping septims."

"Or drakes, gold, or any other slang term you may invent for the Imperial coin," I continued. "Seriously, don't do it, kids. This new currency's just gold-plated copper. It only has value because the Elder Council says it does."

"Damn the money," interrupted the Khajiit lieutenant. "This one wants rum!"

The chorus of support he received confirmed my suspicions, not that anyone with half a brain wouldn't have seen it coming. They want booze…lots of booze.

Not bad for the University's worst party animals. I always knew there was a reason I chose them as my apprentices. If they ever flunk out, at least they'd make good negotiators and merchants.


As much as I want to check in with my Thieves Guild buddies today, I have business to attend to first. I have to meet the Arena's rising star before I can head down to the Waterfront. It's been a long time since I've been there, and for good reason.

No, not that one. My fan moved on long ago. Said he no longer feared (or owed, can't remember which) his loan sharks because of me.

I avoid this place because it was here that I murdered a hero of the Empire in full view of thousands of cheering witnesses. To so many others, Agronak gro-Malog was just another gladiator, a bloody entertainer. To the other fighters, from the lowliest Pit Dog to the Yellow Team's Champion, he was the Gray Prince, a (then-) living legend and an unstoppable swordsman.

Until I traveled to Crowhaven and retrieved proof of his heritage, that was. Agronak was the son of a noble, after all, but…suffice it to say, during our match, he stood and begged me to kill him. To date, his is one of the few murders to haunt me, maybe because that wannabe-Breton fetcher tried to recruit me into the D—

But I digress. As I was saying, I need to find the Arena prodigy. Not only is he one of my most reliable informants, he's the best warrior this side of the Nerevarine. He shouldn't be too hard to spot; I know of no other Bosmer who dyes his hair with blond streaks. Yes, he should be quite conspicuous…except he spends most of the time wearing camouflage. Good thing Invisibility- and Chameleon-type spells are useless against Detect Life.

Oh, that's why I couldn't find him; he was sneaking up on me!

Before I could greet him, though, he motioned for me to keep my mouth shut and follow him away from the Arena.

Once we reached the Market District, he removed his necklace, canceling the enchantment. "Sorry for the trouble," he apologized, "but I've been hiding from my 'adoring' fans all week."

I chuckled humorlessly. "Welcome to my world, boy."

"You didn't come here just to chat, did you?" How perceptive of him. "What do you want, Grand Champion? And make it quick, okay? I got a match against a con in an hour."

"You know all those 'defenders of the faith' causing trouble around Cyrodiil?" I asked. "I'm raising an army to fight them. I expect constant partisan attacks wherever and whenever we march, bad weather throughout the campaign, and the citizens to forget our sacrifices afterwards."

"You? A commander?" Gooey thought for a moment, then burst into laughter. "You, the big damned hero, leading mercenary lowlifes! Gods, the world has gone completely insane! Is Sheogorath coming over for a visit?"

Probably. Who knows?

I shrugged. "I'm sure the Madgod's busy hanging fools with their own entrails. Look, Gooey, you were good at spotting Dawn sleeper agents two years ago. We wiped the floor with those 'mote lords in Bravil last month. Now I'm asking you to fight some Aedra-heads. You in?"

He stopped laughing. "I'm in. Matter of fact, I'll fight for free."


The rest of the day was uneventful. I did a little shopping on my way out of the Market District, but I didn't stop in the Elven Gardens or the Talos Plaza. Some of the new Thieves Guild safe houses, like the former Umbacano Manor, are there, but there's not much else worth mentioning.

The Temple District is another story. Here was where the Oblivion Crisis ended, along with the last emperor's life. I keep wondering if I should've saved Martin during the final battle. Should, mind you, not could. I was carrying Wabbajack that day, and I could have easily stopped Dagon with one shot. I chose not to.

One hit from Wabbajack, and Mehrunes Dagon would have been transformed into something easier to stop, like a Xivilai or a sheep. A few pokes of a sword could have banished the Daedric prince back to waters of Oblivion. Tamriel might still have an emperor today.

And Cyrodiil would be even worse off than it is.

Here is the truth: Had Martin survived, and assuming lighting the Dragonfires would have closed the Oblivion Gates, we would have experienced up to half a century of relative peace before finding ourselves out of Septims. The choice, then, was either to let him live to slightly prolong the decaying reign of the Septims, or sacrifice him to close the permanently close the portals to the Deadlands.

"Innocents die so Tamriel may survive," as Captain Scaeva taught us in the Marsh. Admittedly, it doesn't absolve me of my guilt, but at the time, it made it that much easier to let Martin die. A short reign of the priest-emperor before a final Daedric victory over Tamriel, or a long period of chaos as the nobles of the Empire kill each other over the scraps…hmm, both paths lead to doom. But honestly, does the non-Daedric option look so different from the bad old days? We're used to this form of doom, probably because we have so many incompetent bastards in charge.

In fact, I'll argue that we were doomed even before Emperor Uriel and his boys were assassinated. None of the legitimate heirs had children, and once they were dead, only their sickly old father remained. An ailing emperor, three aging, childless (and dead) sons, and a declining state. Not exactly good signs, are they? If Old Man Uriel hadn't been such a womanizer as a young man, time would have done the Mythic Dawn's job for them…eventually.

And Martin? He was fifty when I met him, only three years younger than Prince Ebel. Assuming all that hash he did as a foolish young Sanguine worshiper hadn't left him sterile, who would have been a suitable mate for him?

Mate. Such an ugly word, but far more accurate than any other. An often overlooked aspect of courtship among the upper classes is that marriage is merely a contract, often forced upon the individuals by more powerful members within their social groups. Money, power, prestige, honor—these are the reasons why people marry, and the more important the person, the more delicate the circumstances surrounding…well, damn near any public action, but especially a marriage. Face it: We're not too different from the livestock we breed.

In Martin's case, we—Baurus, Jauffre, and I, that is—would have needed to find a noblewoman who could stand a penniless priest of Akatosh. There aren't too many of those, and only a handful among them are Imperial. Rarer still are those without family histories of genetic diseases—all that inbreeding couldn't have been good for the bloodlines. One woman on our list qualified: Countess Carvain of Bruma, who explicitly refused. She prefers life as a relic collector and sole ruler of her little town. Figures.

Most women would have killed for a chance to become an empress or a concubine to Martin, and I'm sure the Lythandas painting didn't help matters. Not Narina. As tempting as power and fame may have been, the pulls of perfectionism and education were stronger for her. That girl has a very Akaviri mindset.

Damn tangents. I must be going senile. Or is it demented? What was I supposed to talk about—oh, right, why I let Martin get himself killed. Isn't it obvious? The Empire today is useful as a trade regulator—and nothing else. Martin as emperor would've been a long-term disaster so bad, it would've been a victory for Dagon. Dagon's defeat is his victory—how insane is that?

It doesn't matter. No one shall ever learn the truth behind the last Septim's demise, that one of his closest friends cast him to the Daedra over political beliefs.

As I walked around the Temple of the One and through the tunnel to the Waterfront, I noted the repair job undertaken by the citizens—with government approval, of course. We have no emperor, Tamriel is going to Oblivion, and the Mote Road has opened, but the people—the average citizens—remain. It is one of life's constants.

The people endure.