Chapter 16

The road to Oblivion must be paved with good intentions, Marcus reflected. He had every intention of heading straight to Winterhold, to go to the College and seek out anyone who could tell him about the Elder Scroll he needed to find.

But he barely made it to Ivarstead before he was accosted by someone who seemed bound and determined to take his life. At first, Marcus thought he might be another of those Cultists, who had first attacked Lydia and him after his first trip to High Hrothgar. But the tight-fitting black and red armor was nothing like the loose gold robes they had worn. There was no squid-shaped mask, either; only a cowl in the same black and red leather. Rummaging the body produced a mysterious note in an unfamiliar hand.

"As instructed, you are to eliminate Marcus by any means necessary. The Black Sacrament has been performed - somebody wants this poor fool dead. We've already received payment for the contract. Failure is not an option. – Astrid"

What the fuck? Who the hell was Astrid? And who the hell would hire someone to kill him? Well, the only real answer to that was Elenwen. She must be getting desperate. But why send a hired assassin rather than one of her Thalmor toadies to do the job? The more he thought about it, however, the more it made sense. He was currently in Ivarstead, in the Rift. This was a Stormcloak-held Hold, and the Thalmor couldn't move around these parts freely.

Whoever this poor unfortunate sod was who drew the short straw to try and take out the Dragonborn, he'd never report back to his superiors with his either his success or failure – which clearly hadn't been an option for him in the first place.

A sudden chill gripped Marcus' heart. What about his family? Were they still safe? Fear lent wings to his feet, and he made the six-hour trip in five, dragging himself into Whiterun just as the shops were closing. Breezehome looked secure enough, but it wasn't until he'd opened the door and his children greeted him with delight that he finally breathed a sigh of relief.

After a late meal and an evening spent catching up with their days, Marcus forced himself to relax further by playing duets with Lucia on their lutes. Blaise, as it turned out, had a good sense of rhythm, and he kept time beating on a small drum that he'd bought with his pocket money. All in all, it was one of the nicest homecomings Marcus could remember since he'd found himself in Skyrim.

But after the children had gone to bed, he motioned Lydia upstairs and asked her quietly, "Anything happen while I was away?"

"No, my Thane," she assured him. "I haven't seen anyone lurking around the house. There haven't been any strangers coming into town for no purpose, either. It's been very quiet." She gave him a keen look. "Why? What's happened?"

He showed her the note. "What does this mean?" he asked when she blanched and sank into the nearest chair. "What's the 'Black Sacrament'?"

"Gods, no!" Lydia whispered.

"Talk to me, Lydia," he demanded quietly. "What's going on?"

"It's the Dark Brotherhood," she whispered, glancing furtively around the room. "Paid assassins. Someone has taken out a contract against you."

To be fair, he'd probably made enough enemies since his arrival in Skyrim. "Is that all?"

"Is that all?" she repeated, horrified. "Don't you understand, my Thane?" When he shook his head blankly, she continued, still in hushed tones. "They are relentless! Once they receive the contract, they don't give up until the target is dead."

"Well, I killed the guy that came at me," Marcus shrugged, "so, end of story, as it happens."

"It's not that simple," Lydia said unhappily. "I said they're relentless. It may take some time for them to realize you've killed the one assigned to you, but they will send another, and another, and another, until they succeed." She tapped the note. "'Failure is not an option,'" she quoted.

Marcus considered this carefully before asking his next question.

"Will they come after you and the children?"

"I don't think so, my Thane," she answered, and he felt a weight lift off his shoulders. "From what I've heard about the Dark Brotherhood, the contract is for the target alone. If we were to get in their way, they wouldn't hesitate to kill us, but they won't come after us if you're not here."

"And the guy looking in the windows?" Marcus asked.

Lydia shrugged. "My guess is that he was trying to see if you were home. It was clumsily done," she added. "The Dark Brotherhood is the 'terror that goes by night'. They get in, take out their intended target, and get out again unseen. Either this fellow was a rank amateur, or—"

"—or he wasn't Dark Brotherhood," Marcus finished for her, nodding.

So he stayed at Breezehome, not wanting to put his children at risk, but also hoping to catch whoever had been sneaking about before.

One thing led to another, and before he knew it, Marcus had more irons in the fire than he could deal with. He began what he called the "Breezehome Improvement Project" and brought workmen in to dig out an expansive cellar, which required shoring up the foundation of the existing home and supporting all the load-bearing walls. It was expensive, and that meant delving into barrows and taking on bounty jobs to raise capital. Some of the barrows gave him new Shouts; some of the bounties gave him dragons to kill.

He also began spending a lot more time with Ysolda, who was learning about the merchant trade. It started innocently enough, acquiring a mammoth tusk for her – never again! grumbled his inner dragon – and before he knew it, he was inviting her over for dinner, and spending very late evenings in her company. She was very…accommodating, which was unusual in Skyrim, Marcus was discovering. Nearly all the women he had met so far were either married, or expected a ring on their finger. Ysolda was different; she didn't necessarily want marriage, and that was fine by Marcus, who was still not sure he was ready for that. But the sex was good – really good, in fact – he had to give her that. He hadn't realized just how long he'd been without until he starting seeing Ysolda.

Lucia didn't like her. It was an old grudge that went back to when she was still begging on the streets; Ysolda, apparently, had never been kind to her, and not just for the lack of charity. She had often insulted the little girl, calling her a 'filthy beggar'; when Ysolda began visiting Breezehome and realized the 'filthy beggar' was now daughter to her lover, she put on a fake smile and tried to make up to the child, but Lucia was smarter than that, and refused to be won over.

"She doesn't smile with her eyes, Papa," was all Marcus could get out of her.

Blaise had never met Ysolda before, though he'd seen her in the market on his way to Dragonsreach, but even he wasn't sure how he felt about the woman.

"She makes me feel…funny," he told Marcus. "I can't explain how."

Marcus knew how. He'd been a hormonal twelve-year-old once, long ago.

He might have tried to reconcile his children to Ysolda if he'd had any intention of making their relationship more permanent, but a chance bounty from Jarl Balgruuf threw any notion of that out the window.

Ysolda looked up from her book and smiled as Marcus entered that evening. "Hello, my love!" she greeted him warmly. "I didn't expect to see you back so soon." She rose and crossed the room to kiss him, but he pulled back. Instinctively sensing something wrong, Ysolda frowned.

"What is it?" she asked. "What's happened?"

"Care to explain this?" he gritted, pushing the note in her hands. She opened it and immediately saw her own handwriting.

"Don't try to stiff me on this deal, Ulag.

I can talk the Khajiit caravans into a better price than you'd be able to, and the guards are still looking for you after that little skooma incident. Just bring the sap to my stall in Whiterun like we discussed.

-Ysolda"

"Where did you get this?" she asked automatically, though it was already apparent to her how it had come into her lover's hands.

"Ulag's dead," Marcus said shortly.

Damn! There goes my source for the Sap! Still, the situation might yet be salvageable. "So, you know about my little set-up, then," Ysolda said. "It's not as bad as you think, you know."

"You're a damned drug-dealer!" he snarled.

"Just a little Sleeping Tree Sap," she insisted, recoiling a bit from his ferocity, and hoping he wouldn't find out about the skooma. "It's not like I'm hurting anyone. It's not illegal, you know."

"According to Arcadia, it ought to be," Marcus countered.

"Arcadia!" Ysolda spat. "That sanctimonious bitch has no idea what she's talking about."

It was the wrong tactic to take, and she knew it the moment she said it. Marcus' mouth – that marvelous mouth that made her squirm, squeal and scream in ecstasy – was compressed to a hard, thin line.

"She's an alchemist, Ysolda," Marcus snapped. "I think she knows what she's saying. And she also told me about this." He walked over to her nightstand and opened the drawer, pulling out several small, purple and green bottles. He had seen the bottles there, a week before, on top of the cloth they used for cleaning up after sex. At the time, when he asked, she told him they were potions to help prevent her from becoming with child.

"Sleeping Tree Sap might not be illegal, Ysolda, but skooma is."

There was no chance of lying about it. He knew too much now. "Look, I only sell a few bottles to the Khajiit traders when they come around," she protested. It was falling apart all around her. She had to pull this together somehow or she was ruined.

"It's not like I'm actually hurting anyone," she repeated, trying to reason with him. "The riff-raff that uses that stuff are people nobody cares about."

"It ruins people's lives!" he stormed, and the small house shook with the force of his voice. "They might not be the cream of society now, but only because this stuff steals their future!"

Andrea, he thought bleakly. Ysolda would never know how much pain and anguish his daughter had caused Lynne and him while she tried to get clean. Would she fall back into it, now that he wasn't there? "This stuff is illegal for a reason!" he shouted at her now.

"Darling, nobody needs to know about this," Ysolda begged him. "It can be our little secret. You know where the Tree is now; you can get the Sap for me! I'll give you a good cut!"

Wrong tactic, and she knew it when she saw the look on his face – a look of complete horror and disgust. "And to think I was actually attracted to you," he muttered, crossing to the door and pulling it open. "You heard everything?" he asked Jarl Balgruuf heavily.

"Aye, Dragonborn, we did," the Jarl said, Farengar and several guards right behind him. The door still glowed with whatever spell the mage had used to allow them to hear through it. "You're to come with us, Ysolda," her lord told her. "You've committed crimes against my Hold and my people. You'll be spending a long time in the Dragonsreach Jail."

Ysolda looked as though she would have said something, but instead lifted her chin and crossed to the door. She only looked at Marcus once, to spit in his face, then left with the Whiterun guards and Farengar in escort.

Marcus wiped his face.

"I'm sorry, Dragonborn," Balgruuf said sympathetically. "I know you two had been seeing each other."

"I guess I didn't know her as well as I thought," Marcus said, shoulders slumping. The final scene from The Maltese Falcon kept playing through his mind, when Sam Spade sent Brigette O'Shaunessey up the river for her crimes, in spite of feeling attracted to her.

He'd returned home and threw himself into his construction project. And while he tried to immerse himself in his home and family, in the jobs he took on for the Jarl and in making himself stronger, the knowledge lingered that he needed to get himself up to Winterhold and find out about the Elder Scroll.

He returned to Sky Haven Temple and informed Esbern and Delphine where the situation stood. He went out with Benor to kill the dragons Esbern had been able to locate, then returned home to throw himself back into the house project.

It was coming along well. Expanding downward enabled him to install private quarters for Lydia, an additional privy connected to the sewers under Whiterun – an engineering nightmare in and of itself – and his own den and trophy room to display some of the armor and weapons he'd picked up in his adventures that he wasn't quite willing to part with, though he knew he'd never use them.

He'd thought about putting in his own alchemy lab and enchanter's table, but he really didn't do very much along those lines, and felt it would be a wasted effort. With Warmaiden's right next door, and the logistical nightmare installing his own forge would have involved, he passed on his own smithy as well.

The upstairs area was also remodeled, bumping out the side walls – another engineering nightmare – to provide additional square footage and giving him the ability to put in two bedrooms where Lydia's old quarters and the loft had been. His own master bedroom was enhanced with a balcony that opened out onto the street, where he could sit and read on a fine evening. It would have been a great place for morning coffee, too, he thought wistfully, if only Skyrim had coffee.

Before he realized it, Sun's Dawn had come and gone, and the weather was starting to get warmer. Well, warmer for Skyrim, anyway, he mused. He could put it off no longer. The house still had a lot of finish work to do, but his nest egg was comfortable again and Lydia promised she could manage to day-to-day while he was gone.

"I don't know how long this will take," he told Lucia and Blaise. "I might be gone for several days, maybe even a couple of weeks."

"We'll be alright, Dad," Blaise assured him.

"I'll miss you, Papa!" Lucia sniffled.

They'd been spoiled, having him around all the time, he felt. He hated to tear himself away, though Lucia certainly seemed happier now that Ysolda was no longer coming around. It still rankled, to have been taken in so completely by her ample charms, and he vowed not to allow himself to be sucked in so gullibly in the future. But there were still times, late into the night, when he remembered the passion they'd shared, and only a cold splash of water from the bowl on the nightstand cooled the fire he felt inside.

He left final instructions with Lydia concerning the house and the children, then made his way down to the stables to catch the next carriage to Winterhold. Bjorlam promised to take him there, but warned him it would be a one-way trip: Winterhold had no stable. If he intended to stay long, he'd have to find his own way back.

Bjorlam laid over in Windhelm for a few hours to rest Gerduin before making the final push to Winterhold, but it was already late in the evening. Deciding instead to stay the night in Windhelm, Marcus told the carriage driver to head on back to Whiterun after all.

"No refunds," Bjorlam said firmly. It only cost twenty septims to travel from Whiterun to Windhelm, but it was thirty to go all the way to Winterhold, due to the lack of a stable. Marcus sighed and nodded. He'd be out the thirty septims, but felt he could afford it. Besides, there was a carriage service in Windhelm, and Alfarinn assured Marcus he could take him to Winterhold in the morning…for fifty septims.

Highway robbery, Marcus groused as he made his way to the Candlehearth Inn for what was left of the night. It's not like he has to schlepp me up there from Riften or Whiterun!

The Candlehearth was crowded, and full of Stormcloaks. Marcus felt alarmingly conspicuous, even though he wore his Blades armor, and not an Imperial cuirass. But he might as well have stood on the steps of the Palace of the Kings and shouted "Ulfric Stormcloak is a loser!" for the suspicious looks being thrown his way.

He paid for his room and was shown to it by a sour-faced woman named Elda Early-Dawn. "Try not to break anything," she scowled as she left.

Pleasant dreams to you, too, Marcus chuckled to himself. He slept well, and in the morning broke his fast and decided to explore the city before moving on to Winterhold. Alfarinn had told him it would take six hours, so he felt he had at least some time to kill.

The city was ancient and crumbling. Loose stones were piled In the streets everywhere, in stark contrast to Solitude, which had been clean and well-kept. Indeed, when he first walked in through the gates the night before, he saw two drunken louts threatening a Dunmer woman. He'd broken it up quickly enough and sent them on their way, but even the woman had seemed suspicious of his motives.

"Do you hate the Dunmer, too?" she had demanded.

"No," Marcus replied, surprised. Hadn't he just done her a favor in rousting those ruffians? "I don't hate your people."

"Then you've come to the wrong city, my friend," she said dismally. "These Nords don't tolerate anyone who isn't like them."

Now, wandering around, he could see this had the uncomfortable ring of truth about it. Most of the Dunmer were crowded into the poorest section of town, called the 'Grey Quarter.' They worked hard but seemed to receive only abuse from the Nords who lived here, who called them 'lazy and shiftless'. Marcus didn't see any indication of that.

Most of the businesses seemed to be in what was known as the 'Stone Quarter', and here he found an open market, similar to Whiterun's or Riften's, as well as a smith and apothecary shop. Beyond the Stone Quarter, heading up to the Palace of the Kings, was Valunstrad, the Avenue of Valor, which was comprised of several residential buildings as well as a Temple to Talos and a graveyard.

It was while passing through the graveyard that Marcus saw the collection of people surrounding a body; a body that had been brutally and precisely butchered.

"Stay back!" the guard warned him. "There's nothing to see here. We've got it all under control."

"What happened?" Marcus asked, aghast.

"Susanna the Wicked, she was known as," the woman told him. "She worked at the Candlehearth Hall." Marcus dimly remembered seeing her come down the stairs the night before as Elda was showing him to his room.

"Any idea who did this?" he asked now.

There was a slight hesitation before the guard answered him that he didn't miss. "I really shouldn't say anything," she muttered. "It's all just rumors, anyway."

"Rumors of what?"

The woman leaned closer, a bit disconcerting, given the fact she wore a closed helm. "The Butcher!" she whispered. "This isn't his first victim!"

"So what's being done about it?" Marcus frowned.

"Hey, we're spread thin enough as it is with the war going on," she said, more than a little on the defensive. "If you think you're so good at solving mysteries, maybe you'd like to try your hand!"

Ding! She said 'mystery'! his inner dragon said smugly.

Rallying all the charm he could muster, Marcus smiled. "How can I help?" he asked.

"Well," the guard said, dubious. "You can start by questioning these witnesses." She indicated the priestess who was tending to the body, a finely-dressed old man, and a woman in rags.

Helgird, the priestess of Arkay, was the one who had found the body early in the morning when she came out to perform her supplication rites for the souls of the dead. She could only tell him that robbery did not seem to be the motive. "Her coin purse is still lying there," she pointed out. "And these incisions were done…well, I would almost say 'professionally', as if the murderer knew exactly what they wanted from the body."

She lifted an arm on the corpse. "See here? These tendons were removed, all the way back to the connective tissues."

"There's not enough blood for that to have been done out here," Marcus commented. He'd watched enough detective shows on television to figure out the body had been murdered elsewhere and dumped here.

"Very observant of you, young man!" Helgird said approvingly. "I haven't finished my examination of the body yet. I'm just preparing to move it to the Hall of the Dead now. Come see me later, and I might have more information for you."

Marcus promised he would and turned his attention to the other two witnesses. The older woman in ragged clothing was known as Silda the Unseen; she was a beggar.

"I can't tell you very much," she rasped. "I heard a scream very late last night, but it wasn't repeated. When I came around here this morning, poor Susanna was already lying there."

"You didn't see anything else?" Marcus pressed.

"With the Butcher in our midst, I try not to stray from the public places," Silda said. "I'm just a poor old woman, with nowhere to go."

She probably has a penthouse apartment and drives a Cadillac, Marcus thought privately. Some people made a decent living at begging; better than they could have achieved if they worked their asses off in a nine-to-five job. He slipped her a coin anyway and let her go with a request to come to him if she saw or heard anything else; he'd be staying at the Candlehearth until further notice.

The last witness was an elderly, well-dressed man named Callixto Corrium. An Imperial, like Marcus was now, he sighed, "Always a tragedy when someone has to die," but could provide little in the way of information. "I saw a fellow running away," he said helpfully, "but I'm afraid I didn't get a good look at him. It was dark, you know."

Didn't think I'd get anything useful, Marcus thought sourly. He reported back to the guard who sighed and shook her head.

"Thanks for the help," she said. "We'll take it from here."

"What, that's it?" Marcus said. "Are you going to follow up on clues?"

"What clues?" the woman shot back scornfully. "We've already determined that 'nobody saw anything.' There isn't much else to go on."

"So you're just going to let it go?"

"I don't have a choice!" the woman replied helplessly. "I told you, we don't have the manpower. But I can't have you blundering around, getting in the way. If you want to help, talk to Jorleif. He's the Steward up at the Palace. If he says it's okay for you to help out, then you'll have my cooperation, as much as I can give. My name is Anka," she added. "Ask for me if Jorleif gives you permission."

"I'll do that," Marcus said firmly, and strode off towards the Palace.

He introduced himself to the Steward, refraining from using his status as 'Dragonborn', and simply said he was 'Marcus of Whiterun.' He didn't necessarily want Ulfric Stormcloak to know he was in town.

"Another one?!" Jorleif exclaimed, shocked, when Marcus told him of the events that had transpired.

"Wait," Marcus said shrewdly. "Just how many have there been?"

"This would make the third murder," Jorleif sighed in frustration. "I don't know what to do about it. I can't spare anyone else to look into it."

"I could help," Marcus offered. "I like to think I'm pretty good at sorting out mysteries."

"Anything you can do to help would be appreciated, Marcus," Jorleif told him gratefully. "I'll notify the guards that you're on the case. You'll have our full cooperation."

Thanking the frazzled Steward, Marcus accepted the writ which gave him clearance to the crime scene and permission to investigate, then headed back to the Candlehearth for his midday meal. The locals still kept to themselves, but that was fine by him. He had a lot on his mind.

Someone had killed Susanna and dismembered her body to get at vital tissues and organs, that much was clear. From what Jorleif had told him, this was not the first time it had happened, but was too busy, or too reluctant, to go into detail about the two previous murders.

Honestly, you'd think Ulfric would sit up and take notice, he thought with some disgust. People were being butchered like sheep in his town, and he did nothing to try and get to the root of it. It's not like Windhelm was the size of Chicago or New York, where law enforcement was stretched to the breaking point to deal with the crime. But he supposed it was all relative; the crime rate in Windhelm certainly couldn't match Riften, and that was a much smaller town.

Over in the corner, an Imperial sat with books and papers strewn across his table. He was writing, but occasionally looked up to catch Marcus staring at him.

"Something on your mind, countryman?" the man asked.

Marcus was embarrassed. He hadn't meant to stare. He'd just been busy with his own thoughts.

"Sorry," he mumbled. "I guess I didn't realize—"

"Not at all," the man said pleasantly. "It isn't often I get the pleasure of company from someone of my own Province. Where are you from? Bruma? Cheydinhall? Or perhaps Cyrodiil itself?"

"I – uh—"

"Oh, never mind," the man smiled. "It doesn't really matter, anyway. Come, sit here with me. My name is Adonato Leotelli. Perhaps you've heard of me?" There was a note of eagerness in his voice that Marcus couldn't fail to miss.

"I don't think—"

"I wrote Olaf and the Dragon, as well as Ghosts in the Storm," Adonato continued as if Marcus hadn't spoken. "They were both very well received, and I'm working on my next novel. Tell me what you think of this title: The Life and Adventures of the Dragonborn. Pretty good, huh? I'm sure it will sell a lot of copies. Not that the people of Skyrim do much reading."

Marcus almost did a spit-take when Adonato mentioned the title of his new book, but he recovered quickly, and the writer was speaking so rapidly, he didn't think the man noticed.

"What kinds of books do you write?" Marcus asked, with some reserve. This man was attempting to write a book about him? Without even asking permission or interviewing him?

His inner dragon grumbled, but Marcus suppressed the feeling. Adonato clearly had no idea to whom he was speaking, and Marcus preferred it that way. If the book got in the way of Marcus being able to do what he'd been brought here to do, then he would say something.

Adonato was replying to Marcus' question, and he forced himself back to the present.

"I write drama, my friend," the Imperial said now. "The legends and history of Skyrim made to excite and inspire. Do you know any tales of nobility and courage? I'm keen to record them. Now more than ever, the world needs tales of heroism."

"And what have you written about the Dragonborn?" Marcus asked guilelessly.

"Well, that's the problem," Adonato frowned. "It's difficult to find out much about the man. I keep hearing conflicting reports. Some say he's a Nord hero, but others say he's Breton or Imperial. I heard one report that said he was an Argonian, if you can believe it, and another that said he was actually a she; a mage from the College of Winterhold. I suppose that's not completely out of the realm of possibility."

Marcus nodded agreement, then asked, "What do you know of the murders that have been committed here in Windhelm?"

Adonato sighed. "That's such a bad business," he said sadly. "I still can't believe Isabella's gone. She used to work here too, before Susanna, and now she's gone as well."

"Who was the third victim?"

"Well, technically, Susanna was the third," Adonato said. "Isabella was the first. The second was Friga Shatter-Shield. She was the daughter of the Shatter-Shield clan here in town; quite important people. Her mother, Tova, is in deep mourning, and her twin sister, Nilsine is barely coping. I've seen Torbjorn in here every night, hoping the mead will ease his suffering."

"Torbjorn?"

"The father. He'd bought the house for Friga not that long ago. Hjerim. Grand old house right next to theirs up on the Avenue. I suppose he hoped that if she had a place of her own, some young man might come along asking for her hand. She was the elder of the two girls, though not by much."

Marcus digested this information.

"And they were all killed by this 'Butcher'?"

"That's what everyone is saying," Adonato confirmed. "Isabella and Susanna was found early in the morning by Helgird in the cemetery. Rather suspicious, if you ask me. Friga was murdered in her own home! And the way they were murdered!" Here Adonato shivered. "Body parts being removed like that! Who would know better how to do that than someone who handles the dead all day long?"

Marcus thanked the man and took his leave.

"If you hear any stories about the Dragonborn, be sure to come and let me know!" Adonato called after him.

Not in this lifetime, or the next, his dragon rumbled. Marcus could only agree.

Not having any appetite left for the remainder of his lunch, Marcus headed back to the crime scene. By now the guards must have been notified of his status, and indeed, the female guard he'd seen earlier in the day greeted him. At least, he thought she was the same. With the helmet on, it was difficult to tell.

"Is that you, Anka?" he asked. "Do you think you could take your helmet off while we talk? I mean, it's rather disconcerting talking to a wall of steel."

Anka gave a low chuckle and obliged by pulling off her helm.

"Damn thing gets hot under there anyway," she grinned. Dark brown hair was cut close to her head, but it still didn't prevent 'helmet-hair.' Her gray eyes were serious, though, as she explained, "Helgird removed the body about an hour ago and took it to the Hall of the Dead." She pointed it out to Marcus at the far end of the cemetery, under the wall which formed one side of the Temple to Talos.

"I've been looking around the scene," Anka continued, "and I found a trail of blood that leads to here. It starts somewhere up there, but I couldn't leave the scene to follow it."

"That's alright," Marcus told her. "I'll see what I can find out."

The blood trail was spotty at best, as if someone had tried to contain the amount of blood within the body, but had failed to keep it all from dripping. Marcus carefully examined the ground as the trail wound in a relatively straight line across the graveyard, up the steps and down the cobbled street. Guards passed by, looking at him, curiously crouched over, searching until he found the next blood spot.

At one point, one guard snarled, "Hands to yourself, sneak thief!" and Marcus' inner dragon toyed with various ways to make him pay for his insolence.

Not now! Marcus said firmly.

Later?

No, not later, either! Let it pass.

Grumbling, the dragon subsided once more, but definitely made its displeasure known.

The trail eventually led across the Avenue of Valor into the residential section where it ended in a very fine house, situated at the end of a cul-de-sac.

"Who owns this house?" Marcus asked a passing guard; not the one who had insulted him earlier.

"That house?" the man shuddered. "That's Hjerim! That's where Friga Shatter-Shield was murdered by the Butcher! Her family locked it up tight after she died. I suppose it belongs to them, but they don't use it now."

"So they would have the key, then?"

"Doing your investigating, are you?" the guard queried, scratching his head under the horned, open-faced helmet he wore. "Yes, I supposed they would have the key. You'd have to talk to them if you want to get in there." He shuddered again. "You couldn't pay me enough septims to go into that place! There've been screams heard there. They say the ghost of Friga haunts the place."

Or perhaps the Butcher has been at work again, Marcus thought, more determined than ever to get a look inside. If this was Hjerim, then the Shatter-Shield home was right next door. He knocked, but there was no answer. They must all be away. Giving a frustrated sigh, he decided to see if Helgird had learned anything new in the last few hours.

She greeted him warmly when he finally found her in the catacombs.

"Welcome to the Hall of the Dead," she grinned. "Someday you may end up here." When he didn't respond, she chuckled softly, "That's a little graveside humor for you. What can I do for you, young Marcus?"

"Well, I wanted to see how you were coming along with your autopsy," he said.

"Is that what they call it in Cyrodiil?" Helgird snorted. "Fancy name for examinating a body."

"This is what you do all day, then?" Marcus asked with genuine curiosity. He'd never been in a coroner's room before, but he'd seen several in the detective shows he used to watch. He gently touched the stone slab, the cruel-looking instruments lined up on a side table. He'd seen similar tools in the barrows he'd crawled through. He was prepared for the sight of mutilated bodies, even if he hadn't spent the last few months creating a few of them in his own way.

Helgird shrugged. "My job's simple enough. The dead don't really complain much."

"Try telling that to Andurs," Marcus grinned, and told Helgird how he'd had to retrieve the priest's amulet for him in Whiterun.

Helgird chuckled. "I guess I'm pretty lucky, then. Haven't had that happen here."

"So tell me what you've discovered," Marcus said.

"Well, there's a large, diagonal cut from the left shoulder to here," she showed him. "Someone wanted to remove the heart and the lungs, but they had to open the ribcage to do that. You can see where this side has been sawn through."

"Sawn?" Marcus said in surprise. "Not just broken open?"

"No," Helgird said. "Whoever it was wanted the organs as intact as possible."

"Anything else that's unusual about the body?"

"Well, she's dead," Helgird grinned. "But I guess that's not unusual, at least not for somebody in here. I mean, someone who's not me, that is." Again, at his shocked look she shook her head and said, "Sorry, I was only joking with you. I thought you'd understand. You're different from the usual people that come through here. Most would rather not know what I do."

"I am different," Marcus admitted wryly. "More than you can know. I guess I was just shocked because, after all, Susanna was alive and living and breathing just yesterday."

"And now she's dead," Helgird nodded. "I know, I understand. But you have to remember that life is short and hard here in Skyrim, young Marcus. None of us know when we'll be called to Aetherius by Arkay."

"Susanna's death was needless," Marcus insisted. "She'd still be alive if…if…" he wondered how far he dared go in his criticism of Ulfric Stormcloak. He needn't have worried.

"If our Jarl paid more attention to what's going on in his city instead of fighting a war he can't win," Helgird nodded. "I understand, Marcus. Believe me, I do." She laid a withered hand on his gauntleted fist.

Marcus smiled. "So. The body?"

"Oh yes, right!" Helgird said, recollecting herself. "Well, the only unusual thing is the shape of the cuts. They look like they were made with…well, the ancient Nords used these kinds of curved blades when they embalmed their dead. I don't even know who in Windhelm would even have something like that. Other than me, of course."

"You…weren't involved, were you, Helgird?" he asked slowly. He regretted the question as soon as he asked it. Her eyes bored into his.

"I'm too busy tending the dead, with this stupid war going on, to spend my time making more of them!" she snapped. "Besides, I wouldn't very well tell you about the cuts if I had made them, would I?"

"I'm sorry, Helgird," Marcus apologized. "I had to ask, though."

Her features softened. "I know you did. But let's just get it out there in the open so we can move on, alright?"

She motioned him over to the other side of Susanna's body and pointed out a series of bruises on the girl's neck. "What do you see?"

"Looks like she was strangled," Marcus said promptly. Helgird nodded approvingly.

"Exactly. And not only that, the killer had something rather unique about him. Do you see it?"

Marcus looked closer, but he couldn't figure out what Helgird was getting at. "Okay, I give up," he said finally. Enlighten me."

"Take a look at your hand," she said. "No, I mean without the gauntlet."

Marcus removed the armored glove and looked at his hand again. "I'm still not seeing it," he said.

"Your little finger," she said, waiting.

"O-o-okay…" he ventured slowly.

Helgird gave an exasperated sigh. "Look at mine," she demanded, holding up her hand, fingers together, palm towards him.

Helplessly, Marcus shook his head and Helgird finally relented. "The length, Marcus," she scolded him. "The length! My little finger is only about half the length of the third finger next to it. So is yours. Now look at those bruises again."

He did, and saw at once now what she had seen immediately. "The little finger is almost the same length as the ring finger," he said. "So whoever did this has long fingers."

"Really long and elegant," Helgird said. "The bruise for the thumb is over here, nearly half again the length of my reach." She placed her hand against Susanna's neck to show the comparison.

Marcus gazed at the priestess admiringly for a moment before a thought occurred to him.

"Helgird," he began, "do you keep any really fine powder down here?"

"You mean like bone meal?" she asked. "Some, why?"

"No, finer than bone meal," he answered. He'd seen that particular alchemical ingredient before, and knew it was far too coarse for what he had in mind.

"Hmm," she considered. "There isn't much finer than bone meal, except maybe finely-ground void salts, or perhaps powdered mammoth tusk."

"Where would I get those?

"Talk to Nurelion, at the White Phial," she said. "Why? What did you need it for?"

"I'll show you," he grinned. He asked her to fetch parchment and some ink, and then proceeded to show her how to take fingerprints. By soaking a piece of linen with the ink, he was able to control how much was left on the fingertips before rolling them carefully, precisely, and individually across the parchment.

"Everyone in the world has a unique set," he explained. "No two people have identical fingerprints. Even identical twins, like Nilsine and Friga Shatter-Shield, would have had slight variations."

"Is this some new method they're using in Cyrodiil?" she asked in wonder as she looked at the sets of prints he had made from her fingers, his own, and Susanna's. She compared the inkblots with whorls and ridges she could clearly see on her own hand.

"Uh, yeah. It's fairly new," he bald-faced lied. "There are people whose job it is to match up the fingerprints found at the crime scene to the suspects."

"And how do they get the prints in the first place?" she asked. "If I were a criminal, and knew about this technique, I would not willingly submit to being…what did you call this?"

"Fingerprinted," he shrugged. "That's what the fine powder is for. Your skin secretes minute quantities of oils all day long," he went on.

"That much I do know," Helgird said. "It's what keeps the flesh supple while we're alive. After death, without those oils, the body begins to dry out. The embalming process I use helps to remove those oils faster."

"Exactly!" Marcus said. "Have you ever noticed, when you come in from outside and pick up a mug or a glass, that the heat from your skin leaves a mist on it briefly?"

"Of course."

"Well, your skin is leaving oils there as well, in a perfect – or near-perfect – impression of your fingerprint. It can't be seen—"

"Unless you use the fine powder!" Helgird crowed. "I get it! You sprinkle it on, right?"

"It works better if you can blow it on lightly," Marcus agreed, "and then you'll be able to see the prints and be able to compare them with those found at the crime scene."

"How are you going to get the fingerprints, then?" Helgird asked eagerly.

"I'm working on it," Marcus said. "First I need to get into Hjerim, to see if any were left there by the murderer."

"And then? Do we fingerprint everyone in Windhelm?" Helgird asked sourly. "That's going to take some time."

"No," Marcus said. "I'm hoping to maybe find some clues inside the house that can narrow down possible suspects."

"Do you have any possible suspects?" the old priestess asked him.

Marcus shook his head. "No, not yet. But that's never stopped me before!"

Nurelion was a querulous, sick old Altmer who ran the alchemy shop in town. Marcus walked in on an argument he and his apprentice seemed to be engaged in.

"I'll be fine," the old elf insisted, going off into a coughing jag that clearly indicated he was anything but.

"Master, you're not well enough!" the young man pleaded. "Please, why don't you lay down and rest, and I'll get you some tonic."

"Do you think that if there was a tonic out there that could cure me, that I wouldn't have found it already?" he grumbled. He seemed to notice Marcus standing there for the first time.

"I hope you've got some coin," he said irritably, "and you're not just here to gawk at my goods."

God, I hope that's not code for something, Marcus shuddered inwardly.

"I'm looking for some finely-ground void salts, or maybe powdered mammoth tusk," Marcus told him. "Whichever is finer."

"What do you need it for?" Nurelion demanded, but Marcus didn't want this spread all over Windhelm before he had a chance to set his trap.

"Just let me see them, please," he insisted, rather imperiously. The old Altmer might be sick, but his attitude set Marcus' teeth on edge.

"Hmph!" the old alchemist grumbled. He went into the back and returned shortly with two jars. Marcus didn't know which was which. He wasn't an alchemist and rarely dabbled in it. Either he found the potions he used or he bought them.

Examining the two powders, he took a pinch of each and sifted through his finger. The black powder had the consistency of beach sand; far too coarse. The white powder, however, was as soft as talc.

"I'll take this one," he said, pushing the black powder away and picking up the jar with the white.

"Huh," Nurelion remarked. "The mammoth tusk, eh? Figures. You fighter types are always looking to restore your stamina."

So that's what it does. Well, one of its properties, anyway. Arcadia had told him each ingredient usually produced four different applications.

In spite of the fact that it appeared to be an uncommon ingredient, it wasn't that expensive, and there was more than enough in the jar for Marcus' purposes. Now he had to find someone from Clan Shatter-Shield who could let him into the house. The guards helpfully pointed out Nilsine, a very pretty young girl with an expression of ineffable sadness on her face, listlessly wandering the Stone Quarter.

"I—I lost my twin sister, a while back," she mumbled, when Marcus introduced himself as someone working on the case. "Have you ever lost someone close to you?" she asked, not expecting any empathy.

"My wife and children," Marcus admitted quietly. "They were…torn from me, and are now gone. I'll never see them again." The ache was still there, but he was gradually coming to terms with it.

"Then you know how I feel," Nilsine said dully. "I feel like half of me has been ripped away, and I'll never be whole again."

He nodded compassionately. Yes, that was pretty much how it felt. "I'd like very much to find out who did this, Nilsine," he said. "Do you have a key to your sister's house? Perhaps I can find some clues there."

"My mother has the key," Nilsine said, tremulously. "I don't even want to go in there. My father says we're supposed to get on with our lives. Like it's that easy," she finished bitterly.

"I'll talk to your mother, then," Marcus said firmly. "I'll get to the bottom of it. I promise."

He found Tova Shatter-Shield as she was returning to her home. The older woman looked shell-shocked, but graciously invited him in to talk.

"I don't know what else I can tell you that I haven't already told the guards," she said, sorrowfully. "I've been a bit…out of sorts, since Fr…since our daughter was taken from us."

"Friga was the older of your twin girls?" Marcus asked sympathetically. Tova nodded. "She was born on the fifteenth of Sun's Height at dusk," she explained, "but I was still in labor hours later, and Nilsine was born on the morning of the sixteenth." She gave a slight smile. "We always celebrated the girls' birthdays separately, even though they were born only a few hours apart."

"You bought Hjerim for Friga?"

Tova nodded. "My husband, Torbjorn, did. It was a present for her eighteenth birthday." She gave a small laugh. "Nilsine just wanted a horse of her own. Tor said he wished both the girls had Sina's tastes." Tears welled in her eyes, and she dabbed at them with a handkerchief. "I'm sorry," she said brokenly. "I'm not really sure what to do with myself anymore. I just miss her so much. I try not to think of her, but sometimes, the simplest thing will remind me."

"You shouldn't forget her," Marcus said kindly. "She was your daughter, just as Nilsine is. Don't forget that she's hurting, too. I know it's hard – I've been where you are now – but try to focus on the things you loved about Friga – her smile, perhaps, or her laugh, or the way she would look at you when you teased her—" He couldn't go on; not and still be able to trust his own voice.

"You've been very kind, Marcus of Whiterun," Tova said raggedly. "Here. Take the key. See if you can learn anything from what you may find inside. Tor and I sealed it up after—well, afterwards. We haven't been in there since. I suppose we should sell the place, but who would want to buy it?"

"I'll be sure to let you know if I find anything," Marcus promised, taking the key. "Thank you, Tova. And please accept my sincere condolences for your loss."

Tova nodded and hid her face in her handkerchief. Marcus touched her briefly on the shoulder, then showed himself out.

[Author's Note: Next up, the conclusion of "Blood on the Ice". It's ready, so I'll be posting both chapters simultaneously.]