Chapter 12
"The reach and destructive nature of the Thalmor is known to many (author's note - in my family firsthand). They are not fools. They knew early on that the Blades were an enemy. So they hunted them throughout the Great War. Some were killed defending their Temples, others as they slept in their hideaways, alone. Some fought, some ran, some hid. But the Thalmor found them all.
"There are those that say the Blades still exist around us, in hiding from the Thalmor. Waiting as they have done time and time again, for a Dragonborn to return. For one to protect, for one to guide them.
-The Rise and Fall of the Blades"
Marcus set the book down and rubbed his eyes. It was late, and the candle had burned low. Lydia was asleep in the back room, if her snoring was any indication, and downstairs Lucia was safely tucked away in Dreamland.
For two solid weeks he had stayed home, making further repairs to Breezehome, helping the people of Whiterun and waiting for the shoe to drop. It never did. Neither Farengar nor Jarl Balgruuf ever mentioned a missing key or sword. If Irileth suspected his involvement in the theft – Let's call a spade a spade, Marcus – she never said a word to her lord. If the Jarl had confronted him about it, he would have owned up to it, and would have presented his evidence and reasons for absconding with it. Quite honestly, by this time he was convinced that Farengar was probably too terrified of what Jarl Balgruuf might say if he confessed he'd lost his key.
There was another reason he remained in Whiterun. He was avoiding returning to Riverwood to find out what kind of scheme Delphine had concocted. He'd already told her breaking into the Thalmor Embassy was a bad idea; he didn't think he'd need to expound upon it. But he'd received a letter by courier this morning.
"Dragonborn; expected your return before now. Time is wasting. Meet me as soon as you can. D."
Damn her. She couldn't take avoidance for an answer, could she? So much for the passive approach. He'd have to go see her, he supposed, but not uninformed. He'd taken these last two weeks to catch up on some much-needed reading, to help him sort out what exactly was going on in Skyrim. He'd finished all four volumes of Brief History of the Empire, but it had only taken him up to the end of the Third Age. The Oblivion Crisis filled in some of the gaps, but The Great War gave him the information he needed which was the background for the current crisis.
Marcus understood now many things he didn't before. Delphine was indeed justified in her fear of the Thalmor. If half the things the books told him were true, they really were like Nazis, intent on world conquest. He leaned over to blow out the candle, and the Amulet of Talos shifted against his chest. He'd taken to wearing it after Farengar told him it might help fortify his Shouts. In point of fact, he'd discovered what it actually did was reduce the amount of time before he could Shout again; the delay seemed greatly reduced. So he wore it around his neck and kept it hidden under his tunic, buried beneath the Nordic carved armor. Lydia caught him slipping it over his head one morning and beamed at him.
This doesn't mean I'm going to start worshipping Tiber Septim, he thought sourly.
As he lay there in the darkness, Marcus heard mutterings from the chest where he kept his dragon bones, and grinned to himself. Mephala had been awfully quiet since he'd laid down the law with her. At first, she had attempted to persuade him to kill Jarl Balgruuf and take over as Jarl of Whiterun. That wouldn't happen, he knew, for a number of reasons: first and foremost, he liked Balgruuf, and thought the man was doing a decent job as Jarl; second, he didn't want the job, he already had one; third, Balgruuf's guards – and certainly Irileth – would have killed him if he tried. So he told Mephala to "shut the fuck up, it's not going to happen."
Then Lucia had started acting up, refusing to do her chores, whining about having to wear shoes, and complaining that all the children in the town were "dumb" and she didn't want to play with them. Knowing exactly where this came from – and having anticipated it – Marcus went straight to the chest and pulled out the sword.
"My Champion! At last you've come to me!" Mephala crooned.
"Only to give you this message, Daedra," he snarled, "and I'm only going to say this once, so listen up. You leave my family alone. You leave the people of this city alone. You leave Skyrim alone. Got it? Go back to your slime-hole in Oblivion, or wherever the hell it is you are, and don't dare poke your thoughts out here again!"
"YOU DARE TALK TO ME THAT WAY, YOU PUNY MORTAL!"
"Yeah, I dare, bitch, because I'm the one holding your letter-opener, understand?" Marcus gritted out. "I'm the Dragonborn, and I'm the chosen of Akatosh, so I'm under his protection. You don't like it? Take it up with the Big Guy. I get my orders from him! You give me any more trouble, and I'll be making a trip to the Red Mountain in Morrowind to chuck your little pig-sticker of power down its gullet!"
"You wouldn't dare!" There was genuine fear in Mephala's thoughts. All her power was tied up in the Ebony Blade. How this mortal had discovered that, didn't bear thinking about.
He grinned again, and it was not a pleasant one. "Look inside my mind, sweetheart. If it worked for the One Ring, it'll work for you."
Mephala didn't answer. She let him think he'd won. She could be patient…mostly patient. He was mortal. He wouldn't live forever.
She'd been quiet after that, except for the occasional mutterings. Marcus knew that as long as it went no further than that, there was no reason to follow through on his threat. He also knew that to protect his family, he was fully prepared to do just that.
There was one positive result from this, however: Jarl Balgruuf thanked him profusely for speaking to his son.
"I don't know what you said to Nelkir," he told the Dragonborn, "and frankly, that's between the two of you, but he came to me yesterday and apologized for his rudeness to me. He even asked if we could play a game of Castles and Kings last night. He hasn't done that in months!"
Dagny and Frothar also seemed to be in better moods; they fought less, and Dagny seemed to have remembered whatever manners her late mother had taught her.
He'd take that trade-off.
Sighing now, Marcus realized he had no choice but to go see what Delphine had planned. It had nothing to do with whether or not the Thalmor were involved in the return of the dragons. He was already convinced they knew no more than Delphine did. But a part of him – the devious part he always tried to squash – was curious to know whether they might not have other sensitive information stored there about potential plans to launch another campaign against the Empire. His research had strongly suggested that the Aldmeri Dominion wouldn't be satisfied with anything less than complete and total control of all of Tamriel.
That the Emperor, Titus Mede II, had bent the knee to the Dominion rankled more than a few people. The outlawing of Talos worship was a carefully plotted strategy to pit one faction – the Stormcloaks – against the Empire, causing rebellion and further weakening both Skyrim and the Empire. It seemed to Marcus that as long as Skyrim and the Empire were caught up in a Civil War, the Thalmor and the Dominion had time to rebuild the forces decimated by the Battle of the Red Ring toward the end of the Great War.
It was madness. He didn't know if Ulfric Stormcloak realized this or if he was just too focused on becoming the head man here in Skyrim. He shouldn't be fighting against the Empire; he should be joining them to fight against the Dominion. The Empire had fought the Dominion to a standstill. With all the Provinces united together, they could beat them once and for all. The Thalmor knew this. They played the long game well, because being mer, they had all the time in the world to wait out humans who would only live for fifty years or so before the generation pool would flush itself out.
Blowing out another sigh and turning on his side, Marcus grumbled to himself as he accepted the fact he'd have to make a trip to Riverwood sooner, rather than later. But he would go alone. If this turned out to be as dangerous as he thought it was going to be, he didn't want to involve anyone else.
Marcus was beginning to think he was spending almost as much time in Riverwood as he was in Whiterun. Entering the Sleeping Giant once more, he saw Delphine emerge from the shadows at the back of the room. She was still wearing her leather armor.
"Good, you finally made it," she said without preamble. "Come with me." She led him back down to her secret room, and once all the doors were closed she said, "I've figured out how we're going to get you into the Thalmor Embassy."
"I haven't said I'd do it yet," Marcus frowned.
Delphine's eyes narrowed. "I hope that's a joke. We need to find out what the Thalmor know about the dragons coming back. This is the only way we'll know for sure."
Marcus sighed. "Fine," he shrugged. "Have it your way. What are your plans?"
Delphine's lips thinned out to the point where they were almost nonexistent. He could tell she was biting back some scathing comment, and it was on the tip of his tongue to say, "Don't hold back, sister. Anything you've got to say, say it." But he didn't, and instead just widened his eyes at her innocently.
Deciding to let it go for now, Delphine gave a short nod and said, "The Thalmor Ambassador, Elenwen, regularly gives parties where the rich and connected cozy up to the Thalmor. I can get you into one of those parties. Once you're inside the Embassy, you get away and find Elenwen's secret files. I have a contact inside the Embassy. He's not up for this kind of high-risk mission, but he can help you. His name's Malborn. Wood elf, plenty of reason to hate the Thalmor. You can trust him. I'll get word for him to meet you in Solitude, at the Winking Skeever - you know it?"
"No," said Marcus. "I've never been to Solitude before, but don't worry, I'll find it."
"Good enough," Delphine nodded. "While you're doing that, I'll work on getting you an invitation to Elenwen's little party. Meet me at the Solitude stables after you've arranged things with Malborn. Any questions?"
Just one. Why do I keep hearing the theme to 'Mission: Impossible' in my head?
Aloud he merely told her he had no further questions and they parted.
She couldn't trust this in a letter? he grumbled to himself. Four hours to get here, and four hours back to Whiterun to catch the carriage to Solitude, and I've spent all of fifteen minutes in her company!
In her secret room, Delphine was taking out her aggression on her practice dummy. Damn the man! Didn't he understand she was trying to help him? Why was he being so stubborn? And why did he seem to think everything was a joke? If he didn't start taking things more seriously, he was going to end up dead! The first Dragonborn in two centuries, and he was going to get himself killed because he insisted he knew better than she did about the Thalmor! About dragons! About everything!
In rage, she swung the dai-katana around so viciously she decapitated her practice dummy. It thunked softly to the floor and she stood there, breathing hard, staring at it. Damn him!
A noise near the doorway made her whirl around, sword at the ready. Orgnar stood there, both hands raised. He gulped before speaking.
"I…uh..I'll come back later."
The natural stone arch was the first thing Marcus noticed about Solitude. The entire city lay sprawled along the top of the rock formation that spanned the Karth River Delta which emptied into the Sea of Ghosts. The carriage had traveled all night to get him here, and the rosy pink of the rising sun glinted off tile roofs and grey stone walls. The windmill jutted up above the surrounding wall, twirling lazily in the chilly breeze that blew off the sea to the north.
As they approached the stable area, a young boy in rags came out to grab the horse's harness while Marcus clambered down off the cart. He was traveling light, though he still wore his armor. He'd decided to bring the Ebony Blade with him, more as a precaution against leaving it behind rather than out of any desire to feed its unholy appetite.
"Blaise!" Bjorlam called. "Could you bring a bag of oats for Gerduin here? She's been trying to graze for the last half mile."
"Sure thing, Bjorlam!" the boy said, running back to the barn. He was halfway back to the cart, lugging the heavy sack when a woman called after him.
"Blaise!" She sounded irritated.
The boy hesitated, then sighed. "Yes, Katla?" he called, half turning around.
"You were supposed to weed the garden this morning!" Katla scowled.
"I know, I know," Blaise protested, "but Geimund told me to take care of the goats first, and then Bjorlam needed oats—"
"Is Geimund feeding you?" Katla demanded.
"No, ma'am," the boy muttered.
"Is Bjorlam giving you a place to sleep at night?"
Blaise shook his head. "No, ma'am," he said again.
Katla seemed to notice Marcus for the first time, standing quietly nearby, watching the proceedings. "What are you looking at?" she scowled.
"Nothing much," he said cryptically.
Katla couldn't figure out if she'd been insulted or not, and decided he wasn't worth bothering about. "You get that garden weeded right away," she threw at Blaise before flouncing back into the house.
Marcus took the heavy sack from the boy's hands and walked with him back to the cart. Bjorlam handed down Gerduin's feed-bag with an apologetic smile. "Bad day, boy?" he asked kindly.
"Yeah," Blaise muttered. "And it's just starting, too." He quickly scooped a measure of oats into the bag. Bjorlam handed him a few coins and flipped him another on the sly. Blaise caught it and put it away quickly, looking back to see if Katla were still outside watching. When he went to grab the sack, Marcus shooed him away and said, "I've got this for you. Just show me where it goes."
"Gee, thanks, mister!" the boy said, a faint smile creasing his grubby features. He was actually quite a handsome lad, Marcus thought, if he'd been cleaned up a bit. By now he was starting to recognize racial features, and with his red hair and the roundness of his face, Marcus strongly suspected Blaise was Breton.
"Is Katla a relative of yours?" he asked, conversationally.
"No," Blaise said. "She just-well, she gives me a place to live."
"Doesn't sound too bad," Marcus said, watching the boy carefully.
"I hate it!" Blaise exclaimed. "Everyone feels sorry for me, so they don't treat me too bad, but..."
"Go on."
"Both my parents were in the Legion," the Breton boy said quietly. "There was... an ambush. Katla said she could feed me if I could make myself useful. I take care of the animals, run errands, that kind of thing. I guess it could be worse. But... I'm sick of sleeping outside with the horses!. I want a real home, real parents. Not... this."
He showed Marcus a shelf inside the barn where the grain was stored, and Marcus hauled it up onto the ledge for him. When the boy had his back turned, Marcus slipped a few coins next to the sack where he was sure Blaise would find them.
You can do better than that, his inner dragon criticized. Yes, he could. But it would have to wait for a little bit, until he could talk to Lucia. She was part of this, too. Besides, he had an Embassy to infiltrate. His dragon subsided.
Marcus made his way up the long hill approaching the main gate of Solitude. He had to admit, it was an impressive-looking edifice.
"Here to join the Legion?" one of the guards asked.
"Um…no, not really," Marcus replied, shaking his head.
"Well, if you change your mind, head on up to Castle Dour and talk to Legate Rikke," the guard advised. "If not, better keep your nose clean while you're here, or you'll end up like Roggvir!"
Resisting the temptation to ask who the unfortunate Roggvir was, Marcus assured the man he'd watch his step and headed across the outer bailey to the city gate.
He hadn't expected to walk right into an execution. Vivid flashes of his own near-miss with the headsman's axe swam before his eyes and he turned away before he could witness the final cut. It didn't keep his ears from hearing it, though. He felt sick, and hurried away from the main gate, searching with his eyes for the Winking Skeever. It wasn't far away, and he pushed through the doors and made his way to the bar.
"Mead, please," he told the barkeeper.
"Comin' right up," the man said. "You okay?"
"Never liked public executions," Marcus muttered.
"Ah," the big man behind the bar said sympathetically. "That's a bad business there." He presented a tankard to the Dragonborn.
"What did he do?" Marcus asked bleakly, after drinking half the tankard in one draught.
"He opened the main gate," the barkeeper said, scowling, "and let that traitor, Ulfric Stormcloak escape after he murdered High King Torygg!"
There was little Marcus could say to that. He tried not to think of the sound of the axe slicing through flesh and bone, thunking into the wood block beneath it. Taking a deep breath to steady his stomach, he glanced around the inn. It was quiet and empty, or almost so. It seemed most of the townsfolk had been outside, witness to the execution. A pretty blonde Nord girl was tuning her lute before she began singing.
"Our hero, our hero, claims a warrior's heart,
I tell you, I tell you, the Dragonborn comes…"
Really? There was a song about him? How had he not heard this before? She had a very pleasant voice, so he turned to listen more closely.
"With a Voice wielding power of the ancient Nord art,
Believe, believe, the Dragonborn comes!"
Well, that much was certainly true, at least about being able to Shout.
"It's an end to the evil of all Skyrim's foes,
Beware, beware, the Dragonborn comes!
For the darkness has passed, and the legend yet grows,
You'll know, you'll know the Dragonborn comes."
But no pressure or anything, he grinned to himself as the song ended. He toyed with the idea of introducing himself to the pretty young bard, and wondered what her reaction would be, but decided against it. He had to keep a low profile while he was here until his mission was complete.
Back in a shadowy corner, he caught a glimpse of a figure seated at a table…a figure with pointed ears. That had to be Malborn. He casually got up from the bar and made his way over. Yep, he was definitely a wood elf. He sat down.
"Can I help you?" the elf asked, raising an eyebrow.
Marcus had thought long and hard about how he would introduce himself to his contact without blowing anyone's cover. He had no idea if there were spies listening in or not. If he believed Delphine, they were probably backed up against the wall right now, painted to look like stonework.
"Our mutual friend sent me," he murmured quietly.
Malborn's eyebrows went straight up into his hairline. "You're who she picked?" he asked incredulously. "I hope she knows what she's doing."
There was definitely some kind of insult in there, but Marcus decided to let it pass.
"Fine," Malborn said exasperatedly. "Here's the deal: I can smuggle some of your things into the Embassy. Give me what you can't live without, and I'll make sure to get it in. Don't even think about bringing anything else in with you. The Thalmor take security very seriously."
"What kinds of things?" Marcus asked. He hadn't anticipated this.
Malborn snorted. "Are you sure you've done this sort of thing before?" he asked disparagingly. "I mean your weapons, armor, potions, that sort of thing. Leave everything else behind. I mean it!"
Delphine didn't warn him about this. He was going to have a long talk with her when he saw her.
"Give me a few minutes," he said. "I'll need to get the armor off. I'm not disrobing out here."
"I can't wait around all day," Malborn hissed. "I need to get back before I'm missed!"
"Just give me five minutes!" Marcus snapped. "I'll be right back!"
It was closer to ten, because of a couple of stubborn buckles, but eventually he emerged from an unoccupied room wearing his tunic and leggings with a pair of "borrowed" shoes he found in a cupboard. They pinched a bit, and he felt some sympathy for Lucia, who wasn't used to wearing shoes, but they would have to do.
Malborn was fidgeting frantically by the time he returned with his gear.
"Finally!" he breathed, grabbing Marcus' equipment and practically bolting for the door. "I'll make sure this gets in. You make sure you do your part!"
He sincerely hoped that would not be the last he'd ever see his armor again, and – oh, fuck! He'd had to turn over the Blade of Mephala! Son of a bitch!
Marcus sprinted for the door, intending to call Malborn back, but halfway there he stopped.
Wait a moment, his inner dragon was smirking. Wouldn't the Thalmor Embassy be a far better resting place for that sword than Breezehome?
Ohhh….that was tempting. That was sooooo tempting! But his over-active Boy Scout gland kicked in and reminded him that there were quite a few innocent Imperials, Jarls and dignitaries who trusted, or at least tried to get along with the Thalmor while they occupied Skyrim. He couldn't have it on his conscience if harm came to any of them.
Dammitall!
He ran for the door again, but while he waged an inner war with his moral integrity, Malborn had disappeared. Blowing out a sigh of exasperation, Marcus did the only thing he could do: he returned to the stables to find Delphine. He hoped she was there waiting for him.
Tsavani went into the pantry to retrieve another sack full of potatoes. The afternoon was wearing on, and there was still so much to do. Malborn had come in earlier and put some things away in the larder. She'd seen him go in, but he hadn't said anything to her. She hoped there was more Moon Sugar; she hadn't intended to sneak so much, and now she was almost too short to be able to bake the sweet rolls for tonight's embassy dinner. Elenwen would be furious with her if she knew.
She poked around the shelves and barrels in the pantry, searching for any trace of extra Moon Sugar. There had to be some here somewhere!
That stinking Thalmor bitch! Tsavani hated her mistress with every fiber of her being. So what if she cooked her tail off? So what if the boiled crème treats were the finest in the land? Did the Ambassador ever once give her a compliment? No! And she never would. She would look down that long, narrow nose of hers – so ugly in comparison to the beautiful, wide noses of her people – and sniff, and say, "You've cooked the meat too long, Tsavani!" or "These glasses aren't clean enough, Tsavani!" Pfft! If only there was some way she could get back at that Altmer n'wah just once!
"I can help you achieve your goal, my friend!" a Voice whispered.
"Who speaks?" Tsavani twitched her ears around, whiskers on full alert. Her eyes saw everything in the gloomy recesses of the storage room. There was no one in here with her.
"I'm a friend," the Voice assured her. "If you release me, take me and keep me, claim me for your own, I will help you attain your heart's desire."
The Voice seemed to come from within a chest in the corner. This was Malborn's chest. She really shouldn't touch it. He might get angry, and while he was sometimes a jerk, he was mostly nice to her. At least, they both had one thing in common: they both hated the Ambassador.
"How are you trapped in a chest?" the Khajiit cook asked. "Tsavani is confused."
"Open the chest," the Voice said soothingly, "and all shall be revealed. You wish to kill the Ambassador. I can help you do that."
Tsavani opened the chest.
"The Blade," the mysterious Voice urged her. "Take the Ebony Blade."
"You lying little son-of-a-bitch!" Marcus snarled, grabbing Malborn by the throat. "Where the fuck is it? What did you do with it?"
"Keep your voice down or we're both dead!" Malborn choked. "I swear I don't know! By the Eight Divines, I promise you I put all your gear in this chest! No one knew!"
"Someone knew," the Dragonborn hissed. "That was the only weapon I brought with me, and now it's gone! You want me to do this thing, so tell me what the fuck I'm supposed to do now!" He tossed Malborn away from him. The wood elf took the opportunity to back away toward the kitchen.
"I don't know!" he insisted. "I swear to you I don't know what happened to it. But I have to get back before I'm missed, and if that happens, it will blow your cover, too!" There was an underlying threat in his tone that Marcus didn't miss. Malborn was prepared to throw him under the bus – or in this case, carriage – if he caused a scene.
Malborn closed the door behind him and locked it. Grinding his teeth, Marcus opened the other door and crept out into the hallway. Great. Just fucking great. How was he supposed to protect himself without any kind of weapon? If he ever found out who stole the Ebony Blade, that person was dead meat. Things couldn't get much worse.
"Wait. Did you hear something?"
Crap. Sneaking never had been his strong suit.
Two Altmer soldiers came into the corridor from a room on the left. One of them gestured and a glowing blue sword erupted from his hand.
Well, that's handy. Marcus grimaced at his own unintentional pun. I might be tempted to learn magic just for that.
When a third figure in long robes joined the other two, Marcus blasted them with his Unrelenting Force, watching with smug satisfaction as they were blown down the corridor. Thankfully, the walls were thick enough and the music loud enough in the next room that he didn't think anyone else would come join the party going on here.
The two soldiers gained their feet first and one of them swung his sharply-hooked elven mace at Marcus. He ducked under the blow and slammed his elbow into the man's kidneys. Dodging to one side to avoid the conjured blade coming at him, he kicked out with his legs and swept the elf's feet out from under him, bringing him down to the ground again. A sharp thrust with the base of his palm to the soldier's chin slammed his head back against the floor. The conjured blade winked out as the man's eyes rolled back into his head and he lost consciousness.
Ozone filled the air as a lightning bolt shot past him. The mage was going to be the biggest threat, Marcus knew, and that meant he had to go down quickly. Grabbing a stack of plates off a side table Marcus began to frisbee them at the Thalmor's head in rapid succession while the first guard was getting groggily to his feet. The guard raised his axe for a swing at Marcus' unprotected back – he hadn't had a chance to get into his armor yet – but Marcus saw the blow coming and grabbed the elf's wrist, flipping him neatly over his shoulder. Now the guard was between Marcus and the Thalmor wizard, who had already sent his fireball in Marcus' direction. Marcus pushed the man into the impact and back flipped out of the line of fire. The guard cried out and fell to the floor, unmoving. The mage looked horrified, and then glared at Marcus, who had ended up back by the pantry door.
Marcus glanced around to find anything he could use to his advantage. The mage raised his hands to cast another spell just as Marcus grabbed a large platter off the sideboard, and the metal serving dish intercepted three ice spikes as Marcus blinked at how close they'd come to piercing his head. Throwing it at the wizard, he tumbled right up to the man and went into a series of thrusts, punches and strikes targeting the central nervous system. The mage fell to the floor, jerking in spasms.
"That'll hold you for a little bit, anyway," he grinned. "Laas," he whispered. So far, so good. The party-goers in the other room were none the wiser. Further away, beyond the walls of the building, he saw a dozen or so more red figures surrounding the Embassy proper. Glancing through a window, he saw a courtyard opposite the main entrance by which he'd come in a few hours before. At the far end of the courtyard was another building. Well and good. He'd search this one first, and if he didn't find what he was looking for, he'd try to make it over to the other building.
But not without his armor, and not unarmed. Relieving the unconscious guard of the elven sword he'd never drawn – and why hadn't he, when it was obviously hanging off his belt? – Marcus donned his armor as quickly as he could. There were stairs in the other room leading up, and another quick Aura Whisper revealed nothing waiting for him up there. He found a set of Thalmor boots, gloves and a hooded robe in an unused chamber and took those as well. If worse came to worst, he might be able to bluff his way across the courtyard, as long as he kept his head down.
A thorough search upstairs provided nothing of interest. There were potions and loose change lying around, but Marcus was more interested in the books; even then, only a few seemed to be worth appropriating. It was time to get over to that other building, and that meant slipping the Thalmor robes over his armor. He removed his boots and put on the Thalmor ones, which were narrow and pinched, and he almost couldn't get the gauntlets over his hands, which were much larger than an Altmer's.
And I look like Quasimodo with this damned robe over my armor! he thought sourly. Oh well, there was no help for it. It was either try subterfuge or fight his way through a cadre of the Altmer Third Reich. Taking a deep breath, and keeping one hand on the hilt of the elven sword strapped to his side, Marcus pushed open the door to the courtyard. Head down, barely glancing up to stay on target, he made it halfway across before he was challenged.
"You there!" a female mage called. "Why aren't you at your post?"
Thinking quickly, Marcus affected the Altmer accent and answered, with his head still down, "I'm under orders from the Ambassador herself. You can either let me get on about my business, or explain to Elenwen why I was delayed."
"Er…no, forgive me," the woman said, retreating. "Never mind! Go on your way, please!"
Not bad, he thought. All those years of watching Masterpiece Theatre with Lynne are paying off. Without appearing to rush too quickly, he strode purposefully to the other building and opened the door.
Closing it behind him, the first thing he noticed was another guard standing with her back to the door. From a room off to his left, he heard voices raised in heated debate.
"But I need that money!" the first man said, a Nord, by his accent.
"Silence!" a second man snapped, clearly Altmer by his accent. "Do not presume, Gissur. You are most useful, but do not presume. We have other informants who are less…offensive."
Marcus slipped behind a potted plant and crouched quietly, listening.
"But no one else has brought you such valuable information, have they?" Gissur persuaded. "Etienne, he's talked, hasn't he? He knows where that old man is you're looking for, he told me himself."
"You'll get the rest of your money when we confirm his story. As agreed," the Altmer sneered.
There was a note of shrewdness in Gissur's voice. "So he has talked! I knew it!"
"Everyone talks, in the end," the other man said in a bored tone. "Now, I have work to do. Leave me to it, if you ever want to see the rest of your payment."
There was silence for a heartbeat or two. Then Gissur spoke again. "Can I…I could help you," he offered. He sounded sickly eager to do so. "He'd talk to me. He trusts me."
The other man gave a short, unpleasant bark of laughter. "You'd like to come downstairs with me, is that it, Gissur? Shall we loose his bonds and put you in a cell together? You can ask him anything you like and see how he answers!"
Gissur backed down. "No, no. I'll…I'll wait outside."
"That would be best," the Altmer sneered again. "Now get out!"
So they had someone downstairs they were torturing to get information from. This Gissur fellow was the one that sold his buddy to the Thalmor, and he was trying to extort more money out of them for it. Marcus was sickened. He wanted to go in there and tear them both apart, but his inner dragon spoke caution. There were three of them, and if the Thalmor ran true to form, the one in the other room with Gissur was probably a mage.
Two men emerged from the room at that point, one a Nord in rags, and the other – to his inner dragon's extreme smugness – a Thalmor wizard in long robes. The guard was still standing at the base of the stairs, but now she was waiting to see what the other two would do.
Gissur headed for the door, to Marcus' right; he couldn't fail to see the Dragonborn crouched there if he turned his eyes that way.
But Gissur was muttering to himself. "He can't treat me like that. He needs me! Rulindil, pah! One day, the shoe will be on the other foot…" He was still grousing under his breath as he exited the building, heading outside.
Marcus slowly released a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. In his quiet panic over Gissur's proximity, he'd lost sight of the wizard, Rulindil. A clang of something heavy and iron from somewhere below told Marcus that the mage must have gone downstairs to the torture chamber. That just left the guard.
Marcus waited until the woman's back was turned, then snuck up behind her and hit her hard across the back of the skull with the hilt of his sword. With a groan, the woman sank to the ground. She'd be out for hours, most likely, and he hoped she'd have a raging headache when she awoke. A quick glance out the window ensured that Gissur was still waiting outside, still grousing to anyone who would listen. No one was.
The first thing he did was head upstairs to see if there were any important papers in the rooms above. One bedroom was clearly Elenwen's, and he found a safe in an alcove, containing some gold, a few gems and a couple of small items. He was no thief, but taking the gold might hamstring the Ambassador's operations here, and it was harder to trace where coins had come from than more identifiable items such as jewelry.
A small, leather-bound journal in the bottom of the safe caught his eye. The flyleaf was marked: CONFIDENTIAL and FOR FIRST EMMISSARY ELENWEN'S EYES ONLY. Well, now. Things were looking up. He tucked that away as well.
As he passed a side table he noticed a blue bottle that looked vaguely familiar. Quickly uncorking it he inhaled. Oh yes, this was definitely coming with him. Marcus grinned as he wrapped up the bottle of Colovian brandy and tucked it carefully into his pack. He was thrilled to notice it was almost full.
Downstairs once more, he ransacked Rulindil's office and study, looking for anything pertaining to either the return of the dragons, or a second assault against the Empire. Two dossiers in a locked chest were labeled "Ulfric Stormcloak" and "Delphine of Camlorn" and were lying next to a parchment document labeled "Dragon Investigation: Current Status." He took those, as well as four volumes of Rising Threat from the book shelf – which seemed to have some historical background on the Thalmor – and a key that was lying on the desk.
Creeping down the stairs, he quietly unlocked the door with the key and peered in. A short corridor opened into a larger room, and as he approached the doorway he heard screaming.
"I don't know his name!" a tired voice pleaded. "Please! I've already told you a hundred—AHHHH!"
This last was screamed out, and Marcus heard Rulindil say, "You know the rules. Just answer the questions. And where can we find this nameless old man?"
Marcus peered into the room. Not far away, past some kind of primitive torture device, Rulindil was standing in the doorway of an iron cage; inside, a ragged, brutally-beaten man was manacled to the wall. Rulindil was smiling, enjoying the session. His right hand crackled with electricity; his left hand was stroking his cock beneath his robes.
"For pity's sake," the man in the cage moaned, "I've already told you all I know. Why won't you believe me?"
He howled and writhed in pain once more as the Thalmor aimed a steady stream of sparks at him, pumping his cock with the other hand.
Disgusted, Marcus had seen enough. He strode into the room.
"You know, they say confessions obtained by torture are the least reliable."
Rulindil whipped around to aim the lightning at this intruder who had the audacity to interrupt his pleasure, but found himself flying across the room instead, slamming into the iron cage at the far end as the chamber resounded with, "FUS RO DAH!"
Instantly, Marcus leaped on the wizard and hacked away with the elven sword. Rage suffused his entire being, and when a second Altmer, who he hadn't seen lurking in the corner, attacked him from behind, Marcus whirled with a flying kick that sent the hapless Altmer stumbling backward, tripping over the torture rack.
Rulindil was now attempting to get to his feet, but Marcus punched him in the face with the hilt of the sword so hard he felt the septum give way. Blood gushed from the Altmer's nose and he reeled, before bringing up his hand to cast an ice spike right into Marcus' midsection.
He felt the cold, the gut-wrenching cold, and felt his muscles constrict, but Marcus was getting used to this kind of abuse by now. He gritted his teeth against the pain and feinted high before sweeping low with the blade. Rulindil's shriek would have shattered glass as Marcus liberated his favorite 'toy' from his body. The mage collapsed, and Marcus wiped his blade in disgust on the black and gold Thalmor robes as a bloody stain spread across the middle.
The armor-clad guard rushed up behind him once more and brought her cruelly-hooked mace down on Marcus' head. He felt the impact, but the Nordic carved helm withstood the blow. Turning to face the woman, he head-bashed her, causing her to fall backward, knocking the table of torture instruments to the floor. She swept out with an armored leg, but Marcus easily avoided the kick and knocked her unconscious, the way he'd done with the guard upstairs. So far, so good. Only two casualties, and one of them wasn't his fault. The other was entirely deserved.
Quickly rummaging through the two bodies – one unconscious and one dead – Marcus found a key on Rulindil's and rushed to the cage to release the prisoner, who must have been this Etienne they were detaining. In gratitude, the young man told him everything he knew about the old man the Thalmor were interested in.
"I've heard of him, living down in the Ratway," Etienne said, rubbing his wrists. "Don't know his name or who he is or anything, but I think they've got some kind of document on him in that chest over there." He pointed outside his cage to a trunk on the floor next to a desk. Marcus quickly opened the chest and found a third dossier, labeled simply, "Esbern".
"Let's get out of here," he said.
"Sure," Etienne agreed quickly. "Come on, I think there's a trap door over here that they use to dispose of the bodies."
"Listen up, spy! We have your accomplice."
Oh, crap. What now?
"Give yourself up and come along quietly, or we will kill him immediately." Marcus didn't doubt that for a moment.
"What does it matter?" Malborn's voice drifted down. "I'm dead already."
Great. The little snitch just had to get himself caught! Motioning Etienne to move back toward the trap door, Marcus crept back to the stairs and made his way up as quickly and as quietly as he could.
"This is your last warning, intruder! Give yourself up. You cannot escape us!"
"Wanna bet?" Marcus growled, coming up behind the closest one and slitting the man's throat. The other guard immediately attacked the unarmored Malborn, who could defend himself only with a dagger against a fully trained Thalmor soldier.
"Get back!" Marcus barked at him and inserted himself between the two. It put him far too close to the Altmer to wield the sword effectively in the tight loft area, but it didn't prevent him from head bashing the man.
Sparks flew as Nordic carved steel collided with refined moonstone armor, and both men staggered, seeing stars briefly. The Altmer recovered first and rushed after Malborn, who was beating a hasty retreat down the stairs. Knowing he couldn't get there in time, Marcus Shouted, "Feim!" and felt himself pulled into the ethereal state. He leaped lightly over the railing and landed without injury on the floor below. Malborn rushed past him, nearly losing time doing a double-take as Marcus felt himself begin to solidify again. Thank goodness the Shout didn't last too long.
Once more between the nearly defenseless Malborn and the Altmer soldier, Marcus swung the elven blade and connected with the mace. The elf grinned wickedly and twisted the sword out of Marcus' hands, watching as it sailed through the air into a far corner of the room.
"Looks like you're out of weapons," he sneered gleefully.
"But not out of options," Marcus countered. "FO!"
The column of frost hit the Thalmor squarely in the face, and Marcus launched into a string of martial attacks that left the elf battered and unconscious.
"Come on," he told the others after grabbing a key off the guard and retrieving his sword. "Let's get out of here!"
The trap door led into a tunnel, which led into an ice cave, which led to Marcus having to fight an ice troll all by himself to give the others time to escape. When it was finally done, he noticed a body further back in the cave. Next to the body was a coin purse, a spell book and the strangest thing Marcus had ever seen: an iridescent pink gem, gleaming and floating above a blue velvet-lined carved golden box. Not even sure who would know about something like this, Marcus pocketed the gem and headed out of the cave after the others.
"Now the Thalmor will be hunting me the rest of my life," Malborn moaned. "I sure hope this was worth it."
"You can always go back and say you're sorry," Marcus said unsympathetically. He still hadn't forgiven the wood elf for losing the Ebony Blade.
"No thanks," Malborn shuddered. "I'm headed to Windhelm. I'm going to see if I can catch a boat to Morrowind and hide out for the next few hundred years."
"Good luck with that," Marcus called out after his retreating back. He wondered if Malborn picked up on any intended sarcasm. He turned to the other man standing nearby.
"What will you do now?" he asked him.
"I'm headed back to Riften," Etienne said. "You didn't have to help me, but you did, and for that, I thank you. If you're ever in Riften, look me up in the Ragged Flagon."
"I'll do that," Marcus promised with a smile. He gave Etienne a spare elven dagger he'd picked up off one of the guards, as well as some of his potions. "I'd offer you some armor, but…well…"
"No worries," Etienne said. "I'll be fine now. Farewell."
Marcus watched Etienne jog off in the opposite direction of Malborn. Now he just had to figure out where he was, and make his way back to Riverwood. But he fully intended to commit the dossiers to memory, in case Delphine decided to hang onto them. And there was the little matter of that confidential journal he found in Elenwen's safe. That should make for some quite interesting reading.
No doubt about it, now. If he wasn't on the Thalmor Hit Parade before, he was certainly top of the list after this little incident. It wouldn't take long for the Thalmor Ambassador to figure out that the one guest she couldn't place at her little soiree turned out to be the one person who caused so much wreck and ruin.
As he took his bearings and made his way down the hillside, he worried. Would the Thalmor come after his family? They hadn't better, he thought grimly, or there would be no place in Skyrim, or indeed Tamriel where they could hide from the wrath of the Dragonborn.
[Author's Note: And there you have it. "Diplomatic Immunity" as only Marcus could do it. He did his best to keep the bloodshed to a minimum, but the repercussions will still be felt for some time to come, especially since there's that little matter of a lost Daedric item (you didn't really think I'd let an honest man like Marcus keep a foul thing like that, did you?).
Next up we head to Riften to find an old man hiding out in the Ratway, and Marcus gets his first encounter with the Thieves' Guild.]