Chapter 17

Hjerim was a dark, gloomy, low-ceilinged house with wide, expansive rooms. The first thing Marcus noticed upon entering was the blood spatters everywhere. He didn't know exactly how long ago the murder of Friga Shatter-Shield had taken place, but it was apparent that it was long enough to allow dust to collect on the floor and cobwebs to form in the corners.

Bottles of mead lay scattered everywhere, some empty, some full and some which were in a partial state of consumption, as if the imbiber had laid it down for a moment, then walked off and forgotten it. Footprints in the dust, and tracks of mud and blood led throughout the house, crisscrossing themselves. It would be impossible to say they led anywhere in particular.

The main trail of blood, however, which looked as though something heavy had been wrapped up and dragged, crossed the main hall from the back room to the front door, swerving near a chest in the corner. It was locked, but it wasn't a high-quality piece of hardware, and Marcus thought he was getting pretty good at getting into things most people would like to keep others out of.

Inside the chest was a sheaf of pamphlets, all reading the same message:

"Beware the Butcher!

The killer who haunts the streets of Windhelm!

These calamitous times bring out the worst in people; don't become the next victim!

See Viola Giordano if you spot any suspicious behavior."

"So, someone else has been investigating," Marcus mused out loud. Or at least, they were trying to bring awareness to the issue. Why were there so many of them in the chest?

A murderer might attempt to deflect attention from themselves by calling attention to the problem, his inner dragon rumbled.

It was possible. Or they might simply be trying to keep the pamphlets out of peoples' hands. In any case, it might be worthwhile to seek out this Viola Giordano and see what she had to say on the matter.

Underneath the flyleaves, he found a small, slim, leather-bound book. "Now we're getting somewhere!" he murmured with satisfaction, and opened the volume.

A few moments later, he closed it with a sharp snap! What a sick bastard! He had deliberately stalked Susanna. This wasn't just a random killing. This was pure, unadulterated pre-meditated murder. Marcus felt sick.

Pocketing the journal and one of the flyers, Marcus searched the kitchen area before proceeding upstairs. He wanted to be sure he hadn't missed anything else before checking out the back room. Other than the oddly-placed chair on the bed, which looked as though someone may have tried to hang themselves – or perhaps someone else? – there was little to see upstairs.

Returning to the main level, he followed the blood smears into the back room, which was devoid of anything other than two wardrobes and a nightstand. One wardrobe held a blood-stained tarp or blanket, and a few spare clothing items, but they were made for a man, not a woman.

Marcus considered this for a few moments. How long had Friga Shatter-Shield actually lived in the house? If the lacks of furnishings was any indication, it didn't seem like it could have been very long. Tova had told him that she and Torbjorn had sealed the place up after their daughter's murder. Where, then, had all the furnishings gone? And whose clothes were hanging in the wardrobe? Knowing what he knew of most women of Skyrim, it seemed unlikely Friga would have had a secret lover, but it wasn't out of the realm of possibility.

The nightstand yielded more of the Beware the Butcher! Flyers, and Marcus was about to move on to the other wardrobe when a glimmer of something caught his eye. Kneeling down he rummaged under the papers and carefully pulled out an amulet, grateful he was wearing his gauntlets. It was about the size of a half-dollar coin, suspended from a chain made of silver and ebony. A worn bas-relief on the face of the amulet seemed to be carved from a single piece of jade and mounted to the silver backing. He couldn't make out what the carving was meant to be, however.

He didn't hold out much hope that he would be able to lift a print from it…the necklace was, after all, very small. He hoped he would have better luck with the journal. Tucking the piece of jewelry carefully into his belt pouch, he turned his attention to the second wardrobe.

This one appeared to be nailed to the wall, and remembering Delphine's "secret" door, he searched until he found a catch that opened the false back panel.

Marcus like to think he had a strong constitution, and he'd watched many an episode of CSI and NCIS, but television gore paled in comparison with reality. The nightmarish scene would haunt his sleep for many weeks afterward, and he only just made it to a bucket out in the alcove before retching up his lunch.

When he had recovered somewhat, he took a deep breath and a stamina potion before re-entering the charnel room. Trying desperately not to step on any of the bones strewn around the floor, Marcus made his way over to a table, which seemed to be where the Butcher did most of his work. Embalming tools lay amid the pools of blood, bones and viscera which littered the table. A second leather-bound volume lay to one side, and Marcus picked it up, though it was several minutes and another stamina potion before he could open the book out in the main hall.

It read like a grocery list. The grocery list of a madman with murder on his mind. At the bottom of the last page the writer had inscribed some sort of ritual:

"star-scrying to the edge of the ice-mind

Look to the lights where the souls dance

Revealing the time when a spark will revive when the rotted unite under most skillful hands

(translated from Aldmer text, as interpreted by the Ayleids and first transcribed by Altmer, provenance and authority unknown)"

And underneath that, scrawled as though the writer was in a hurry: "Soon."

What the hell did that mean? Not the "soon" part, he got that. But all the other hocus-pocus mumbo-jumbo that went before it. Marcus shook his head. He needed fresh air. He needed to get out of here.

He needed a drink.

It was nearly suppertime when he felt settled enough to return to Jorleif with what he'd learned. Jorleif knew nothing about the amulet but told him he should speak with Callixto Corrium, the owner of the antiquities museum.

Wasn't he one of the witnesses? Yes. Yes, he was.

"As for Viola Giordano," Jorleif said scathingly. "She's just the town busy-body. Seems to have made it her business to find out who this 'Butcher' is, but she hasn't really had anything useful to add to the investigation."

"You've spoken with her, then?" Marcus asked.

"No need to," Jorleif said dismissively. "Like I said, she's just a nosy old busy-body. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm needed." He gave a slight bow and crossed the room to where Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak sat on his throne.

Marcus had deliberately avoided looking at the man, and kept his distance. He didn't think Ulfric would recognize him as the same young man on the cart with him in Helgen, but he was taking no chances. The irony of the situation was not lost on Marcus. Here he was in Windhelm, seat of power of the Stormcloaks, working to try and solve a murder mystery for a man he despised.

We're not doing it for him, his dragon rumbled. We're doing it for Friga and Susanna and Isabella.

"Quite right," he murmured, turning on his heel and leaving the Palace of the Kings.

He found Viola Giordano crossing the Valunstrad, heading home. She saw him before he noticed her. An older woman, she appeared to be in her forties, wearing common clothing, her graying hair swept back from her Imperial features.

"Be on the lookout!" she hissed at him, in a conspiratorial whisper. "The Butcher could be around any corner!"

"What do you know about the Butcher?" Marcus asked, curious. Was she truly just an old gossip, as Jorleif seemed to think, or was she withholding information due to any lack of cooperation on his part.

"Not much," she admitted. "But I'm the only one who's trying to find him!" She gave a shudder. "Well, not find him, really, but information about him. The Jarl won't help. The guards won't help. They're all too busy with this war. I'm the only one who seems to care!"

"I care," Marcus stated simply, thereby earning Viola's trust in an instant. "Can you tell me what you've been able to find out?"

"Not here!" Viola hissed. "The walls have ears, you know!" She led him back to the Candlehearth, where they found a quiet table and ordered tankards of mead.

"So," Marcus prompted. "About the Butcher…?"

"Yes," Viola said in hushed tones. "I've figured out that it must be a man—"

"Why?" Marcus interrupted.

Viola blinked. "Well, because he's been preying on woman," she said simply. "Young women, too, but there's only been three murders, so that could change."

"That still doesn't rule out a female suspect," Marcus said. Maybe Jorleif was right after all.

"You didn't let me finish," Viola scolded. "The bodies have been dragged to the cemetery from a long distance. I saw the abrasions on Susanna's body. The same as on Isabella's. That requires a great deal of upper body strength: something at which men are better than women."

Alright, so she had been making some realistic deductions. "Anything else you can tell me?"

"Both Susanna and Isabella were murdered in the 'dead hours' of the night," Viola said. "Sometime between three and four in the morning, when the guard patrols are at their sparsest. It's as though they knew when to avoid being seen."

"So the perpetrator has been watching the guards," Marcus said. "Alright, that makes sense."

"That's not all," Viola said. "From the way the bodies were dragged, I figured out the killer must be between five and a half, and six feet tall, and probably not more than about a hundred and fifty pounds in weight."

Marcus gaped at her. "How in Oblivion did you figure that out?" he asked in wonder.

"Based on the damage to the bodies after death, and the depth of the ruts formed in the cemetery, our murderer wasn't able to lift the girls completely off the ground. He didn't have the height or the strength to do so."

Marcus grinned. "That's a pretty important profiling," he said approvingly.

"Profiling?"

"It's what you just did: figured out who we should be looking for based on the clues left behind." He took out the journals. "I'd like to show you something," he told her, "but for reasons of my own, I'll have to ask you not to touch it. What can you tell me about this?"

He turned the pages of the first journal slowly, allowing her to read the text. When she nodded she was finished, he set the book carefully down. "Well?"

Viola considered. "The handwriting suggests an older person," she said finally. "If you look at it again, you can see how unsteady it is. See, there, where the ink is smudged?"

"Couldn't that just be emotion?" Marcus asked.

"No, I don't think so," Viola said, shaking her head. "The language used is too methodical, too purposeful. The murderer knew exactly what they wanted, and how they were going to get it. Everything here tells me that they were doing their very best to control a physical ailment, like the trembling hands older people sometimes get."

"Like they were writing it down for posterity," Marcus mused, and Viola beamed at him.

"Exactly!" she said.

"Interesting," Marcus said thoughtfully. "So we're looking for an older man, about five and a half to six feet tall, but probably under that, of medium build—"

"Who knows magic," Viola reminded him. "This passage here: 'I am discovering new magic here. Something deeper than the cantripped shenanigans of fire and light.' It sounds like he may have been kicked out of Winterhold for exploring magic not allowed up there."

"What kind of magic?" Marcus asked.

"The darkest kind," Viola said, dropping her voice to a whisper. "Necromancy!" She looked around carefully before continuing. "I've been suspecting Wuunferth for some time now!"

"Who's Wuunferth?"

"The court mage," Viola said, scowling. "He's called Wuunferth the Unliving, and I've always thought he was a suspicious character. There have been rumors swirling about him for years. As long as I can remember, really. But he's a dangerous man. It's why they call him 'the Unliving.' I wouldn't approach him directly. You should take this to Jorleif and let him know what we've discovered! There's no time to lose!"

"Hold on, Viola!" Marcus said firmly. "I'm not going to go to Jorleif about this and start throwing accusations around. I'll need more solid proof."

"I don't know how much more solid you can get than this," she said, doubtfully, indicating the journal.

"I've got some ideas kicking around," Marcus assured her. "But I'm not ready to say anything yet, so I'm going to ask you to keep quiet about it for now. I don't want to tip our hand."

Whether Viola understood the poker reference or not, she seemed willing to go along with him for now. He was sure it was because he was the first person to take her seriously. He escorted her home, to her immense pleasure, then returned to the Candlehearth to consider his next move. He needed to get his hands on a couple of glass goblets.

Inquiries the next day led Marcus to Sadri's Used Wares in the Grey Quarter. Along the way, he noticed a little flower girl standing near a large gate that led out to the docks where ships. Her dress was stained, torn and ragged, her feet were bare, but her eyes were bright with hope as she approached him with her flower basket.

"Please, mister, would you like to buy some flowers?"

Knowing he was already lost, Marcus smiled. "Of course," he said. "What have you got?"

"Some mountain flowers, some nightshade and some deathbell," she informed him. "I picked them all by myself."

"What's your name?" he asked.

"Sofie," the little girl replied. She looked to be a little older than Lucia, but younger than Blaise.

"Where are your parents?" he asked gently, already guessing. She wouldn't be out here trying to sell flowers if her parents were still around.

"They're—they're dead," Sofie said quietly. "My mama died when I was little….I don't remember her very well. My father was a Stormcloak soldier. One day he left and…didn't come back. I'm all alone now. I…I try to sell flowers so I can buy food. Sometimes Mister Quintus from the White Phial will come and buy some, and Miss Niranye likes the lavender I sometimes find to make her house smell pretty. I know it's not much, but…what else can I do?"

"I'll take them all," he told her firmly, handing her more than enough to cover the cost of the flowers. She tried to give him change, but he told her to keep it and thanked her for the pretty flowers.

"Thank you, mister!" she said happily. "Thanks for talking to me!"

She comes home with me, he told his inner dragon, before it could protest, but the presence in his mind was quiet, humming to itself happily.

Revyn Sadri was more than happy to let him browse his rather extensive and eclectic selection of used goods. Marcus eventually found two clear crystal mismatched glasses and paid the dark elf for them.

"All my good in here are legitimate," he assured Marcus, "which is more than I can say for some."

Marcus raised an eyebrow. "Has that been a problem?" he asked.

"Of course not!" Revyn protested, a little too loudly, Marcus thought. "Only a careless, shameless, idiotic fetcher would do something as stupid as to buy pilfered goods!"

Marcus loved that word: fetcher. There was just something about it that spoke volumes.

Revyn put his head in his hands and leaned his elbows on the counter. "Oh, by Azura, I've made a terrible mistake!" he moaned.

"Why don't you tell me about it," Marcus offered. "I might be able to help."

Revyn seemed to consider the Imperial before him for a few heartbeats before capitulating.

"I bought a gold ring the other day," he confessed. "And now I find that Viola Giordano has been missing a ring that fits the description!"

"So, just return the ring and explain it to her," Marcus shrugged. "I'm sure she'd understand. At least she'll have her ring back."

"It's not that easy," Revyn said. "You're an outsider, so you wouldn't understand. My people aren't viewed or treated very well here." Marcus admitted to himself that he'd already noticed that. "She'd go straight to the Jarl if she thought I was even remotely involved."

"What if I give it to her?" Marcus offered.

"I can't have my name connected to it in any way," Revyn pleaded, desperately. "You have to get it to her some other way. Look, I know it's dangerous, but if you could sneak into her house, put it in a dresser or something. She'll think she's just mislaid it. No connection to you, and better still, none to me. I'd make it worth your while."

Breaking and entering? his inner dragon snorted. No wonder the Dunmer are viewed with suspicion here.

Squashing that thought, Marcus took the ring. "I'll get it to her without her knowing how it came to be there," he promised. And he wouldn't even have to break into her house to do it. Slipping it into a drawer somewhere might be dicey, but he felt confident he could distract her long enough to do the deed.

Leaving Sadri's Used Wares, Marcus headed for Callixto's museum. He wanted to see how Hilgird was coming with the journals he'd dropped off earlier in the day. He'd shown her how he had seen the forensic cops dusting for fingerprints, and she promised to experiment with her own prints before trying to lift anything off the books. But she would need something to compare any results to, and that meant getting examples for the two suspects he had.

Something about Callixto had bothered him. It wasn't until he'd woken up in the middle of the night, still churning the information through his mind in his sleep that he realized what it was.

"Always a tragedy when someone has to die."

Susanna didn't have to die. It was a tragedy, yes, but not because she had to die…unless Callixto knew more than he was letting on.

Callixto greeted him warmly as he entered. "How goes your investigation?" he asked.

"Not well," Marcus lied, watching the older man's face carefully. A flicker of satisfaction passed across so quickly Marcus might have missed it if he hadn't been looking for it.

"Ah, well," Callixto smiled. "I'm sure something will turn up soon. What can I do for you today? Have you come to view the museum? I'd be happy to show you around."

"Actually, yes," Marcus smiled. "I'd love to have a look at your collection."

Callixto beamed in satisfaction and began to show Marcus the wide array of items he had collected in his years of adventuring. "With my sister," he said, a slight hitch in his voice as he spoke. "We inherited a modest sum of money and decided to travel and seek out whatever adventures we could find."

"Where is your sister now?" Marcus asked, pretending to examine a drinking horn, but really looking at the collection of embalming tools sitting next to it.

"My sister passed away some years ago," Callixto replied sadly. "So I settled down here and opened the House of Curiosities. I think she would be happy to know that our collection has brought smiles to faces both young and old."

He continued to point out various oddities in his collection: the Book of Fate, which was completely blank ("Those with no pre-determined destiny might see only a blank book," he explained), Ysgramor's Soup Spoon ("Yes, I know it looks like a fork. How can one eat soup with a fork, you ask? My friend, you did not know Ysgramor!"), and the aforementioned embalming tools.

"These were found in a crypt outside Windhelm. They belonged to the ancient Nords who dwelt in Skyrim before the days of the First Empire."

"Aren't these used to prepare the dead for burial?" Marcus asked.

"Yes, indeed!" Callixto said, giving him a curious look. "Are you a scholar, then, perhaps?"

"Maybe a budding one," Marcus smiled. "I found a couple things I was hoping maybe you could tell me more about."

"I'd be delighted to take a look at them," the curator smiled.

Marcus pulled out one of the glass goblets. He had noticed earlier that Callixto's hands were bare, with long, elegant fingers and a little finger nearly the same length as the ring finger; that made this so much easier. He handed the goblet over. "Someone told me this was an ancient betrothal goblet of the Third Era," he fabricated. "Is it worth anything?"

Callixto gave an indulgent smile. "Oh, my friend," he chuckled. "I certainly hope you didn't part with any significant amount of money to obtain this."

"A few gold," Marcus admitted sheepishly. Damn, but he was getting good at acting!

"Well, I hate to be the one to tell you," Callixto said as he handed the goblet back. "This is just a simple glass goblet, such as you could find in any shop from here to Cyrodiil. I'm sorry."

"Oh well," Marcus muttered as he carefully put the chalice back into his backpack. "Live and learn I guess. What about this?" He pulled out the amulet, watching the old man closely.

The tell-tale widening of the Imperial's eyes told Marcus what he needed to know. Callixto recognized the necklace, and the casual manner in which he passed off its identity didn't fool Marcus for a moment.

"Interesting," the old curator murmured, shooting a shrewd look at the young Dragonborn. "Where did you come by this?"

"Shroud Hearth Barrow," Marcus said without batting an eye. "It's down in Ivarstead, at the foot of the Throat—"

"I know where Ivarstead is," Callixto cut him off, then smiled. "Well, that's where it must have ended up, then," he said. "This is the Wheelstone. It's an heirloom symbol of the power of Windhelm. It's traditionally carried by the court mage. I'd be happy to buy it from you for, say, five hundred septims?" His eyes narrowed ever-so-slightly, and Marcus pretended not to notice.

"Shouldn't it go back to the court mage, then?" Marcus asked, as innocently as he could. "I mean, if it's missing, I'm sure he'd be glad to have it back."

"Wuunferth? Bah! It's purely ceremonial," Callixto dismissed. "He has no use for it. Besides, I wouldn't want to be the one to give it to him. Gives me the creeps!" He lowered his voice to hushed whisper. "They say he dabbles in necromancy." He paused to see what effect that had on his audience, and Marcus obliged him by looking suitable shocked. "Are you sure you won't sell? Five hundred septims is a lot of gold."

Ah, appealing to the baser instincts, are we? Marcus smiled grimly to himself. Aloud he simply said, "No, I think I'll just hang onto it for a while. Maybe I'll use it to start my own collection of curiosities!"

"Of course, of course," Callixto said. "Well, that's it for the tour. If you'll excuse me, I have some things I need to attend to." He escorted Marcus to the door and shut it behind him. Marcus stood outside once more.

"Well, what's the hurry, here's your hat," he murmured. Callixto certainly seemed keen to get him out of the shop as quickly as possible. And Marcus didn't miss the distinct snick of the lock being turned behind him.

It was all still very circumstantial, however, as he turned his steps to the Palace of the Kings once more to track down Wuunferth the Unliving.

As he made his way down the cobbled street he could not fail to overhear a young boy in a very loud exchange with a Dunmer woman who looked enough like Revyn Sadri to be his sister.

"So it's true, then," the boy said, "what everyone is saying? That Aventus Aretino is doing the Black Sacrament? Trying to summon the Dark Brotherhood?"

You have my attention, child, Marcus' dragon suddenly reared its metaphorical head. He hung back behind a stone pillar to listen unobserved.

"Oh, Grimvar," the woman sighed, "always with the nonsense. No, of course not! Those are just tales…"

"Fine then," Grimvar said, calling her bluff as only a determined child can do. "I'll invite him out to play then. He lives right there. I'm going to knock on his door…" Marcus peered around in time to see Grimvar heading to a door tucked under a stone over hang not far away.

"No, Grimvar, wait!" the woman cried in sudden panic. "That boy….that house…they're cursed!"

Grimvar's voice was suddenly full of smugness. "Ha!" he gloated. "Then I'm right! I knew it! He is trying to have somebody killed!"

The Dunmer woman gave it up and sighed again. "Alright, I won't deny it, child. What you've heard is true. But Aventus Aretino walks a dark path. His actions can only lead to ruin. Now, enough! We will speak no more of this. I am the only friend you need…"

The voices faded as the boy and the woman continued on down the street.

Marcus turned this new information over in his mind. A child…a playmate of young Grimvar…was attempting to contact the Dark Brotherhood, to have someone killed? Who could have pissed off a child that much? How could such a child even afford a contract fee? Worse still, it appeared a lot of people knew about this, from what Grimvar had said, and Jarl Ulfric had done nothing to stop it.

We have to do something about this. About the boy. About Ulfric Stormcloak.

"Add it to my List of Things to Do Today," Marcus muttered. He took a swift glance up and down the street before slipping over to the door. He tested the latch and found it locked.

Small wonder there, if the kid's doing something he knows he shouldn't be doing, Marcus thought to himself. And where the hell are his parents? Grimly, he had a feeling he knew the answer to that one. With the war going on, there were an awful lot of war orphans on both sides.

The lock wasn't difficult, thankfully, and Marcus quickly got it open and slipped inside. Stairs led straight up, and he heard a young boy muttering upstairs, but he couldn't quite make out the words. As he drew level with the upper floor, however, they became much clearer…and darker.

"Sweet Mother, sweet Mother, send your child unto me," the boy intoned from another room nearby. "For the sins of the unworthy must be baptized in blood and fear."

Marcus glanced swiftly around the room. Spartanly furnished, with garbage strewn everywhere, it looked as though someone who cared very little if they lived or died existed in this house.

The boy, Aventus, never ceased his chanting, only stopping now and then to plead to some unknown entity, "Please….how long? How long do I have to keep this up? I keep praying, Night Mother, but I'm so…so tired." Then he took a deep breath and began again, "Sweet Mother, sweet Mother, send your child unto me…"

Marcus' heart broke for the poor kid. A piece of parchment near his foot caught his eye, and he bent down to pick it up, having no qualms whatsoever about reading someone else's mail. This was a boy in crisis, after all. Any information would help.

"Master Aventus Aretino," the note read, "Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak wishes to express his deepest sympathies at the death of your mother, Naalia. Unfortunately, because you are fatherless, and have no other known relations, the Jarl cannot allow you to remain in your home unsupervised. Therefore, in no more than a week's time, you are to report to Honorhall Orphanage in Riften, where you will reside until your sixteenth birthday.

"The Aretino family home in the city of Windhelm will, of course, remain your property. The building will be securely locked and ready for your return six years hence. Note that I am unsure of the education provided to you by your recently deceased mother, or if you possess the ability to read the letter I am currently composing. Therefore, a member of the city guard will call upon you in one week, at your home, and provide escort to the orphanage. Hopefully, his arrival will not come as a complete shock.

"With greatest respect, Jorleif, Steward to our most noble Jarl, Ulfric Stormcloak."

How Marcus contained his temper, he had no idea. His inner dragon was howling with outrage, and he wanted to punch Jorleif in the face, followed swiftly by Ulfric Stormcloak.

Or maybe just test the theory of whether we can actually Shout a person to death, his dragon rumbled dangerously, and it was far too tempting to give in to that thought.

Here was a boy in crisis, who had just lost his mother, who had no father to look after him, and they thought…they hoped…that a note was sufficient to let him know of the changes they had decided to put him through. No wonder Aventus was calling upon the Dark Brotherhood! Marcus was tempted to sit down next to the boy and chant along with him!

Deciding now was the time to intervene, when Aventus had paused once more in his litany, Marcus stepped to the doorway of the other room, which must once have been a bedchamber, but was now something quite different.

Whatever he had been expecting Aventus to be doing, kneeling next to a skeleton in a ring of candles, stabbing a human heart – how in the name of all that was holy did he acquire that? – with an iron dagger, was not one of them.

"So…tired…" Aventus murmured. The boy looked awful. Thin to the point of being emaciated, wearing ragged clothes with dark circles under his eyes, he looked as though he hadn't slept in days.

"Aventus," Marcus began quietly, and was surprised to see the child leap to his feet as if pulled by a string.

"You came!" he breathed, then whooped in satisfaction. "I knew you would! I did the Black Sacrament, over and over, with the body…and the…things, and then you came! An assassin from the Dark Brotherhood!" The boy's eyes were shining in almost worshipful respect.

Wait. Assassin? Me? "Uh…hold on a moment," Marcus stammered. "I'm not who you think I am."

"Yes you are!" Aventus exclaimed. "I did the Black Sacrament, and then you showed up, and now you can kill Grelod the Kind!"

Did we take a wrong turn somewhere? he asked his inner dragon, who chose that moment to remain quiet.

"Who's Grelod the Kind?" Marcus asked. Not Jorleif? Not Ulfric Stormcloak? Pity about that one, really. He really would have like to see Ulfric dodging red and black clad assassins everywhere he went. Of course, as Jarl he would be surrounded by guards at all times, even when he went to the privy, so it was unlikely an assassin would succeed. Still, one could hope. Maybe they could introduce black widows into the privy.

"She's the Headmistress at Honorhall in Riften," Aventus explained. His face fell. "My mother…she died…and then the Jarl said I couldn't stay here and they sent me to Honorhall."

So, he'd been able to read the letter after all. The words 'Jarl' and 'Honorhall' were laced with as much hate and disgust as a ten-year-old could muster.

"The Headmistress there is an old woman they call Grelod the Kind," Aventus continued. "But she's not kind, she's horrible, to all of us! She's a monster! She needs to die!"

"It's probably not as bad as all that," Marcus made one more attempt to persuade Aventus to give up this dark path he trod.

"Yes it is!" Aventus insisted. "You don't know what it's like! She won't let us play outside. We get to stand out in the cold and the snow and the sun and the rain for only an hour, then we have to go back inside to work. Work, work, work, all the time! We don't get lessons, we only get one meal, and if we complain, she beats us or puts us in the Pit!"

"The Pit?"

"It's a dark, wet, stinky hole under the Orphanage," Aventus explained. "We have to stay there until she remembers to let us out. Samuel was there for two days, once! He only survived because Francois slipped some bread down the hole to him…at least, he did until Grelod caught him, and then she beat him for it so bad he couldn't move for a whole day. Then she beat him again because he didn't do his chores."

Marcus was definitely not liking what he was hearing.

"And the Jarl doesn't do anything about this?" he asked.

Aventus snorted derisively, and there was so much said in that one ugly sound. "The Jarl doesn't care beans about us," he sneered. "We're orphans. No one cares about us. Except Constance. She's nice. She tries to help, but only when she can do it without Grelod catching her."

Marcus considered this. Aventus might have an overactive imagination, but even a ten-year-old would have trouble making up some of the things he was hearing now.

"I'll look into it," he promised. "If you're right—"

"You'll kill Grelod, right?" Aventus asked eagerly. A little too eagerly, actually. No doubt about it, the boy was already tainted by his knowledge of the purpose of the Dark Brotherhood.

"How did you escape from there?" Marcus asked, curious.

"I slipped over the wall," Aventus said proudly. "Hroar let me stand on his shoulders and gave me a boost. I wanted to pull him up after me, but there was a guard patrolling nearby, and Hroar just told me to make a run for it." His face fell again. "I hope he's okay. I hope Grelod didn't find out he helped me."

"And you came back here all by yourself?" Marcus asked, impressed in spite of himself.

The boy nodded. "I hid near the stables until the carriage was ready to leave, then I slipped underneath it and held on."

Marcus blinked. "All the way back to Windhelm?" he blurted, in spite of himself.

"There were some planks under it that I slipped onto," Aventus shrugged. "It was a rough ride, but I made it."

Impressed in spite of himself at the boy's ingenuity, he still felt there had to be some other solution than cold-bloodedly killing an old woman. Perhaps Aventus was stretching the truth – to the breaking point, maybe – and perhaps he wasn't too far wrong, but Marcus realized his trip to Winterhold would be put off indefinitely while he resolved this. He couldn't leave Aventus hanging in the balance, eking out an existence in a barren house with a skeleton that didn't even have a closet to hide in.

He promised the boy once more that he would investigate, and on his way out he slipped a small pouch of coins into a nightstand by the door where he knew Aventus would find it. It would keep him going for a few weeks, at least until Marcus could get to the bottom of this particularly sticky situation.

Wuunferth the Unliving was about as cantankerous as Nurelion had been. What is it with the old men around here? Marcus bristled. They all seemed to think that their longevity gave them some sort of superiority over everyone else.

At first he was indignant when Marcus suggested he might have dealings with necromancy.

"I am a member of the College of Winterhold, in good standing!" he thundered. "They haven't allowed necromancy for hundreds of years!"

"But I found journals that suggested a mage was involved," Marcus replied. "It seems pretty damning."

"I've never kept a journal in my life," Wuunferth said scathingly. "Only a fool who thinks he'll forget things writes it down in a place someone else can look through."

When Marcus showed him the amulet, and told him what Callixto had said about it, Wuunferth snorted. "Figures he'd say something like that," the mage said sourly. "This is the Necromancer's Amulet, of legend," he said authoritatively. "See this relief here? I'm pretty sure at one time it depicted a skull, but it's all worn and faded now. So it appears you're right about one thing: there is necromancy at the heart of all this."

"You mean with regard to the Butcher?" Marcus asked.

"Precisely," Wuunferth said, getting up and crossing the room to his desk. He shuffled some papers around and searched in a couple of drawers before he seemed to find what he was looking for. "Ah, here it is." He showed Marcus a chart he'd drawn on the parchment in his hands. "I've been doing a little investigating of my own into this matter. I've been noticing a pattern to when the killings happen. Now that we know they're tied in to some sort of necromantic ritual, I think I know when the net might occur."

He spread the chart out onto the table and muttered under his breath, "Let's see…from a Loredas of Last Seed, until a Middas of Heartfire…it will happen soon." He looked up at the young Dragonborn. "Very soon," he insisted. "Keep watch in the Stone Quarter tomorrow night. That's almost certainly where the killer will strike next."

"Why there?"

"Because I suspect that's where he's been finding his victims," Wuunferth said. "Except for Friga Shatter-Shield, who was a young woman moved out into a house of her own, alone, the Butcher has been targeting young women wandering around late at night, despite the warnings of Viola Giordano. When the market vendors go home, they don't always pack up everything in their stalls. I'm not suggesting anyone is stealing anything, you understand, but the temptation is certainly there, and the Butcher has been quick to take advantage of it."

Marcus nodded. It made a certain amount of sense. He still wasn't sure Wuunferth wasn't blowing smoke up his backside, however, so he pulled out the other glass goblet he'd purchased earlier in the day.

"One more thing before I go," Marcus said. "I picked up this crystal goblet in a barrow somewhere. It was the only one in the entire barrow, and I thought that was rather unusual, so I got to wondering if it might not be enchanted." He gave a helpless shrug. "I really don't know how to tell these sorts of things. Could you take a look?"

"Hmph," Wuunferth said, taking the goblet and twisting it this way and that. His hands were long and elegant, and the little finger was nearly as long as his ring finger. Marcus felt his heart drop. Damn!

"There's nothing unusual about this," the mage said now, handing it back. "Looks like someone might have left it there, and recently, too. It's not that old."

"Ah, well, thanks for checking it out for me," Marcus said. "I'll be sure to let you know what I find out tomorrow night."

"I wouldn't bother," Wuunferth drawled. "If you're successful, I'll hear about it. And if you're not…" he cackled unpleasantly. "I'll hear about that, too!"

Marcus left the Palace of the Kings as quickly as he could without looking like he was rushing. What a nasty, unpleasant old codger! he thought sourly. The less dealings he had with Wuunferth the Unliving, the happier he would be.

On his way back to the Hall of the Dead, Marcus stopped by Viola Giordano's house and knocked politely at the door. She cracked it open only a little bit until she saw who it was, when she opened it wider and welcomed him in.

"What have you learned?" she asked eagerly. "Anything new?"

"Not much more," he hedged, unwilling at this point to divulge too much. The last thing he needed was for Viola to tip off his suspects that he was closer to solving the case. "I really just stopped by to ask if you had any rolls of paper I could borrow."

"I think so," she frowned. "What for?"

"Something I'm working on," he grinned. "Can't say too much, you know."

"Well, alright, I suppose not," Viola fumed impatiently. "But I'm going to demand a full report when this is all over!"

"I promise you'll learn everything once it's done," Marcus said. "And I'll make sure Jorleif knows about your help with all of it."

Viola beamed at him and said happily, "I think I've got some paper upstairs. I'll be right back!" She went upstairs, and Marcus quickly slipped her gold ring into a nearby dresser. He'd be sure to let Revyn know before the day was out.

Viola returned shortly with the paper and once more made him promise to tell all as soon as he could, then Marcus left her house and made his way to the Hall of the Dead to speak to Hilgird.

You're getting pretty good at deception, his inner dragon smirked.

Shut up, he told it succinctly.

Hilgird greeted him enthusiastically when he showed up in her workroom.

"I've managed to get some clear enough prints from the two journals that I think we'll be able to use to identify our killer," she crowed. "This is the most amazing thing I've ever seen! I tested the fingerprint patterns of several other soldiers who were brought in the day before yesterday and studied their prints." She indicated the scored of papers strewn across one table. "Not a single one of them is like the other! I believe I could get used to this type of study," she chirped happily.

"It's called 'forensics' where I come from," Marcus said. "It's the study of all the clues left behind after a crime to determine who the perpetrator is."

"Forensics, eh?" Helgird mused. "I doubt there's any other priest of Arkay across Skyrim who wouldn't love the opportunity to solve crimes this way."

"Maybe you should write and tell them," Marcus grinned. Helgird gave a very girlish giggle.

"Maybe I will! Now, let's see what you have. And look! I have a brand-new pair of gloves so I don't damage our evidence!"

After nearly an hour of studying their 'evidence', Marcus and Helgird drew deep breaths together.

"So we have our killer?" Helgird asked.

"I believe so," Marcus nodded.

"Are you going to go to the Jarl with this information?" the priestess asked.

Marcus shook his head. "I'm not sure he would believe this evidence of ours."

Helgird gave an exasperated snort. "What more can you do?" she said. "Short of catching the Butcher yourself, that is."

Marcus quirked a lop-sided grin at her. "Well, now, Helgird, my dear, funny you should mention that!"

That old wizard had better be right about this, Marcus grumbled to himself. He was stiff, he was cold, he was tired, and by all that was holy, he wanted a drink. Something warm that would take the chill out of his bones and warm his inner core. He wondered if Elda Early-Dawn had any Colovian brandy at the Candlehearth. After this, he was definitely going to find out.

Movement from his left caught his eye and he tensed, but relaxed. The shape was too small to be the Butcher. In fact, it was too small to be a full-grown person.

Sofie! Fear speared Marcus through the heart. What the fuck was she doing here? As a matter of fact, where did the child sleep? He'd given her plenty of money the other day when he'd bought her flowers. He'd have thought she would have slept at the Candlehearth for a night, or failing that, at the New Gnisis Cornerclub run by the Dunmer in the Grey Quarter.

But no, he reasoned again. If all she had to her name was the generous handful of coins he'd given her, she would have hoarded them carefully to make sure she'd be able to buy food, not knowing when her next benefactor would buy her flowers.

I should have taken her home first! he berated himself. But he didn't think this whole Butcher thing would take as long as it had. Stupid, Marcus! he growled to himself. It was stupid of you! Mysteries only get solved in an hour on television. In the real world it takes a lot longer, if they ever get solved at all!

Sofie had wandered over to look at the produce stall run by Hillevi Cruel-Sea. She didn't touch anything; she just looked wistfully at the fruits and vegetables that hadn't sold that day. Marcus was getting worried.

Get out of here, Sofie! he pleaded silently. He dared not say anything aloud, lest he give away his position and warn the Butcher away. But he didn't want Sofie harmed.

By arrangement with Steward Jorleif, several guards were hidden around the Stone Quarter, but were keeping out of sight to wait and see what would happen. They would also serve as witnesses, if they could apprehend the Butcher before he struck again.

Please Sofie, he begged silently, leave! Go! Get out of here!

He could stand it no longer; he couldn't put her at risk. They would just have to wait until the next time opportunity presented itself. Marcus gathered himself to stand when a sudden glint of moons-light on metal caught his eye. A shadow separated itself from a corner by Niranye's stall and moved up behind Sofie, who was peeking over the counter of Aval Atheron's stall.

The hand holding the glinting metal raised, and Marcus broke cover.

"Now!" he called to the guards in hiding. "FUS RO DAH!" he Shouted towards the crouching figure, which was hurled against Niranye's stall, knocking over several bits of armor and weaponry still stacked there.

Sofie shrieked, and Marcus rushed forward to grab the child before she could disappear into the night.

"We've got him, Marcus!" Anka called, and indeed, though the figure thrashed wildly about, he was trussed up like a Thanksgiving turkey.

"Let me go! Let me go!" he shrieked. "I've done nothing!" Marcus wasn't surprised at all to see Callixto Corrium lying on the pavement, but several of the guards murmured their astonishment.

"We'll let the Jarl decide that, Callixto," Marcus said darkly, still seething with fury over what the old curator had tried to do. "I've given him some pretty damning evidence already."

Anka rummaged through Callixto's pockets and produced a key. "This what you were looking for?" she asked Marcus.

"That works," he said shortly, taking it from her. "I want to take care of Sofie here first, then I'll meet you there."

"Take all the time you need," she said, coming over to him and leaning down to speak to his ears alone. "Dragonborn," she whispered, grinning smugly at his look of surprise. She was still grinning as they led Callixto away to the Jail under the Palace.

"D-dragonborn?" Sofie whispered, wide-eyed and shivering.

Marcus nodded, smiling gently. "Yes, Sofie, I'm Marcus, called Dragonborn. I hope you're not afraid of me."

"Afraid?" she breathed. "No! You're the hero of the people. Everyone has been telling stories about you. You were nice to me when I didn't know who you were, and you saved me from that bad man!"

"I was very afraid when I saw you here tonight, Sofie," he said. "Why did you come here? You must have heard the stories about the Butcher."

She nodded meekly. "I know. But I couldn't sleep. It was so cold, and I thought if I walked around I could warm up a little. I didn't know the guards wouldn't be here tonight, or I wouldn't have come."

"Sofie," Marcus said anxiously. "I can't let you live on the streets like this. It isn't right. Do you have any family at all?"

She shook her head, lower lip trembling. "Please don't send me to Honorhall!" she pleaded. "Aventus told me what a horrible place it was. That's why I was selling flowers. I thought if I could buy my own food, than I wouldn't be a beggar like Silda, and the Jarl wouldn't send me there. Please, Mister Dragonborn! Don't let them send me to Honorhall!"

Her cries tore at him, and he knew that if he didn't help her, Honorhall was indeed where she might end up. He'd already promised Aventus he would look into it, but he needed to make sure Sofie was safe first. He hadn't discussed it with Blaise or Lucia yet, because this was a fairly new development, and he fervently hoped they wouldn't object too strenuously.

I'm really going to need a bigger house, he thought to himself, but honestly, he didn't mind. Maybe he'd have to suck up to Jarl Siddgeir of Falkreath after all, but if it meant he could build his own home, he could put in as many bedrooms and privies as he wanted, and adopt as many children as he felt able to take care of. He chuckled wryly to himself. Poor Lydia! What would she think of all this?

"I'm going to take you to the Candlehearth for tonight," he said. "Well get some food in you and you can get a good night's sleep. In the morning, we'll talk about your future, okay?"

Hesitant at first, Sofie finally agreed, and he saw to it that she was settled in a room of her own, cuddled up and safe in bed before heading over to Callixto's House of Antiquities to join Anka in a search of the old curator's home and museum.

The evidence they found there, coupled with the fingerprints Helgird discovered on the journals, all in Callixto's handwriting, were more than enough to convince Jorleif they had their man. He marveled at the new procedure they used to ascertain who the perpetrator was, but assured Marcus that Windhelm was most grateful, and that Jarl Ulfric would deal with the murderer in his own way.

Marcus had a feeling that Callixto would have a date very soon with the headsman. That seemed to be the answer to every major crime in this country. He didn't want to stick around to receive accolades from Ulfric in person, however. Instead, he sent a note by courier ahead to Lydia and asked her to prepare a second bed in Lucia's room, and to inform her he was bringing home a new addition to the family.

Marcus chuckled to himself. He wished he could be there to see her reaction. Knowing Lydia, it would probably involve quite a bit of eye-rolling.

[Author's Note: "Blood on the Ice" is one of those classic, Skyrim mystery quests that abounds with red herrings and misdirection. I always felt bad about Wuunferth ending up wrongfully imprisoned (yes, I know he gets exonerated…not the point!) so I decided to let Marcus used a bit of logical, 21st Century know-how to circumvent a scripted quest. Fingerprinting is a technique that has been in use since the early 1900's, so it's entirely possible that it could be done without modern technology. Consider this a little "CSI: Skyrim" compliments of me. *wink*]