Chapter 18
As much as Marcus would have loved to stay in Whiterun longer, to help Sofie adapt to her new family, he felt a pressing need to return to Riften to investigate the truth of Aventus Arentino's claims about Honorhall Orphanage. He still couldn't quite believe the boy's claim that the Jarl didn't care about the children there. If it had been Ulfric, he could have believed it, but he had never met the Jarl of Riften, who Lydia told him was a woman named Laila Law-Giver. Just the name sounded promising.
He told Sofie on the way back to Whiterun about the town, the people and about her new family, and she was shyly excited to meet them. He hoped Blaise and Lucia would be as eager to meet their new sister.
He needn't have worried. Lucia took to Sofie right away, thrilled to have a big sister. She took the older girl into the room they would share, and though it wasn't quite finished and was still a bit crowded, they both assured their Papa that they would make it work.
Bunk beds, he thought. They need bunk beds in here.
Blaise was more reserved, but he was the quieter of the two. He welcomed Sofie kindly and told her if there was anything she wanted to know about Whiterun to just ask him. He had thrown himself into learning all he could about his new home town, and was rapidly becoming quite the expert.
Marcus remained in Whiterun the day after he brought Sofie home to make sure she was settling in alright, and he promised her that after a short trip to Riften he would return home and spend more time with all of them.
"Are you going to help Aventus?" she asked quietly, so her new brother and sister wouldn't ask too many questions. He appreciated her discretion.
"Not the way he hopes I will," he assured her. "I'm just going to talk to the woman and see what's going on."
Sofie nodded, reassured, but her eyes were troubled. She didn't share her thoughts with Marcus, however, but smiled at Lucia who came running up to ask her if she wanted to go outside and play tag with the other children. The two girls took off together.
Later in the evening, he told Lydia of the events that had taken place in Windhelm, and she agreed he should head out to Riften as soon as possible.
"Try not to pick up any more strays, my Thane," she teased him. "I don't know where we'll put them!"
"I promise nothing," he grinned.
This time his trip to Riften was uneventful. He traveled alone, not seeing the need to bring anyone with him. The guards at the gate said nothing to him this time, and even the sour-faced bouncer guy lingering near the bridge was absent. In the market area, he saw the Argonian jeweler, the sneering armorer and the Dunmer merchant, all hawking their wares. Brynjolf was absent, and his stall was empty.
"Just packed up and left after that girl came through last week," Brand-Shei told him. "Pretty little thing, too, for a Breton."
"Brynjolf didn't seem to be the kind of man to fall for a pretty face," Marcus remarked.
"Oh, he loves the ladies," Brand-Shei shrugged. "They love him, too, apparently. But I'm glad to see he's not trying to swindle honest folk with his snake-oil medicines anymore."
Well, there is that, Marcus thought.
"So," Brand-Shei continued. "What can I do for you?"
"Actually, I was hoping to find out a little more about the Orphanage here," Marcus said. "I'm not even sure where it's located."
"Over there," Brand pointed, "across the canal from the Scorched Hammer. Why are you interested in the Orphanage? Looking to adopt? You can save yourself the trouble."
"Oh?" Marcus perked up. "Why?"
"I've been here in the market stall for forty years," Brand said. "I've got a nice clear view of the place when I walk around the market, and in all that time, I've never seen one single child come out of there with a new family."
"Not one?" Marcus asked skeptically. "That seems hard to believe. Surely some of them—"
"Not. One." Brand emphasized. "Lots of 'em go in, like back during the Great War, and even now with the conflict going on, but the only ones to come out of there are teen-agers barely able to support themselves."
Dreading his next question, Marcus asked, "What happens to them then?"
Brand-Shei shook his head sadly. "Most of 'em turn to a life of crime, not knowin' any other way to get by. The girls end up working at Haelga's, if she takes 'em on, or turnin' tricks down in the Ratway. The boys…and some of the girls, too…usually get taken in by the Guild, but only the clever ones survive."
"Working at Haelga's doesn't sound so bad," Marcus began, but stopped when Brand gave him a queer look. "What?" he demanded. "I haven't stayed there, but it's an inn, right?"
Brand chuckled, and it was the sound of a man who couldn't believe someone was so clueless. Marcus didn't like being the target of that amusement.
The Dunmer lowered his voice slightly. "Haelga worships Dibella," he said finally, as if that explained everything. Marcus looked at him blankly. "The Goddess of….Love," the dark elf grinned.
Oh.
The light clicked on and Marcus couldn't prevent the look of shock that flashed across his face. Brand-Shei saw it, and nodded. "Now you know what I meant about the girls that come out of the Orphanage."
"And the Jarl does nothing about this?" he demanded.
"I doubt she even cares what happens down here in the city," Brand-Shei scoffed. "As long as it doesn't affect her up at Mistveil Keep, nothing changes."
Marcus was getting heartily sick of government officials who didn't care about the people they governed.
Thought I left all that crap behind when I was brought here, he brooded. But he supposed corruption bred anywhere people in power strove to keep that power.
He thanked Brand-Shei for the information, but decided it might be wise to get a second opinion. He got more than an earful from Drifa Honey-Hand, who was admiring some jewelry the Argonian merchant, Madesi, had on display.
"Ugh! Don't get me started!" she exclaimed. "It's just the sort of thing my Bersi keeps going on about. I swear he's going to be the death of me! He's so worried about the people of Riften, and doesn't seem to worry enough about himself."
"So what can you tell me about the Orphanage?" Marcus asked quickly, unwilling to be side-tracked into the private squabbles between a husband and wife.
"Well, it's run by a woman named Grelod the Kind," Drifa said. "But from what I hear, she's anything but. She took over the Orphanage a long time ago, before I was even born. Been running it ever since, but I don't think I remember hearing about any adoptions, unless she handles those privately."
That was entirely possible, Marcus thought to himself. "What about reports of the children being thrown out onto the streets?" he asked aloud.
Drifa shuddered. "I've heard those, too, but I couldn't tell you if they're true or not."
"It's true," rasped a quavering voice behind them. Drifa recoiled, but Marcus turned to see a beggar woman seated on the ground near some crates next to Brynjolf's stall.
"You're intruding on a private conversation, Edda," Drifa scolded, but Marcus raised a forestalling hand.
"No, no," he said. "I'd like to hear what she has to say."
Drifa sniffed and took her leave, and Marcus lowered himself to squat next to Edda.
"Tell me what you know, Edda," he said kindly.
"The colors…" she muttered. "The colors…they're so bright! I can't stand them."
She's a bit…unhinged, he thought. Or this was a comparatively successful ploy she used to gain sympathy from travelers like him who might be inclined to drop a coin or two into her hands.
He dug into his belt pouch and pulled out a septim, holding it up. Edda's eyes glinted as she fixed her gaze on the gold coin.
"Tell me about Honorhall," Marcus encouraged.
"No training…no education…no love," Edda wheezed. "Grelod the Kind…Grelod the Unkind."
"You said it was true that the children were thrown into the streets," he prompted.
"Yes…true," Edda mumbled and turned her despairing eyes to look at him. "I was one…thirty years ago. Grelod threw me out…said I was too old to stay. Sold my body. Sold my soul. Nothing left now."
Pity washed over him. How many had suffered like Edda in all those years, he wondered. He felt the dangerous stirrings of his inner dragon rumbling.
"Why, Edda?" he asked now. "Why does Grelod run the Orphanage if she hates children so much?"
"She got money from the Jarl. Laila's father. He set her up to take care of his by-blows. His by Grelod. His by other women. I saw the journals. The letters. He paid her money for each child in her care. Until they turned sixteen. So no adoptions. Not for his children. Not for any after. I saw the proof. She caught me. Beat me. Put me in the Pit. But I knew the truth. She threw me out soon after that. When I turned sixteen."
Marcus sat back on his haunches. It made sense now.
From what Edda told him, Jarl Laila's father had been in a clandestine relationship with Grelod, among others. When she became pregnant, he set her up with the Orphanage, conveniently located next to Mistveil Keep. He had his lover close by, and any children they had together were passed off as orphans. She must have done something to hide her condition from the rest of Riften, if she ever left the Orphanage at all.
When their relationship cooled and he moved on to other women, he brought them to her to take care of. Marcus would bet dollars to donuts that the Jarl threatened dire consequences to Grelod if she adopted out his illegitimate children by other women. Some men just liked to see the proof of their own virility. Having to spend day after day taking care of your ex-lover's children was probably what soured Grelod on children in the first place.
So she couldn't or wouldn't adopt the children out. And if the old Jarl was subsidizing her operation by giving her an amount of gold for every child in the Orphanage, what better way for her to build her own nest egg than to legitimately take in orphans across Skyrim, as long as the government – the Jarl in this case – was footing the bill? Once she could no longer receive a subsidy for them, at age sixteen, she kicked them out.
Marcus was quite certain the old Jarl intended for the money to be used to help raise, train and educate the children until they grew into useful, productive citizens of the Rift. Grelod must have come up with some kind of cover story for him when she turned them out, if he even bothered to find out about them at all. He wondered how much of this Laila Law-Giver knew. Probably not much.
"Thank you, Edda," he said now, handing her the coin, and adding two more to it. "You've been very helpful."
Edda's eyes widened at the sight of the coins. She smiled at him and said softly, "The gods look favorably on the charitable soul."
Standing, Marcus turned and made his way across the wooden causeway over to Honorhall. It was relatively warm, for Skyrim, and a clear sunny afternoon, yet he heard no sounds of children out in the walled-in yard. He couldn't see over it, but if children had been playing there, he should have heard something.
Opening the door, the first thing he noticed was an older woman's voice raised in a tone of stern lecturing. Peering around the corner he saw four children assembled in front of a gaunt, old crone in a plain dress. She had a very stout looking stick in one hand which she waved threatening at the children.
"Those who shirk their duties will get an extra beating. Do I make myself clear?"
There was a mumbled chorus of, "Yes, Grelod."
"And one more thing," Grelod continued unpleasantly. "There will be no more talk of adoptions! None of you riff-raff is getting adopted. Ever! Nobody needs you, nobody wants you. That, my darlings, is why you're here. Why you will always be here, until the day you come of age and get thrown into that wide, horrible world. Now, what do you all say?" She raised the stick expectantly.
The children responded immediately with hopelessness disguised as enthusiasm. "We love you, Grelod. Thank you for your kindness."
"That's better," Grelod sneered. "Now scurry off, my little guttersnipes."
The children hurried out a side door that appeared to lead outside. When it closed behind them, Grelod turned back and seemed to notice Marcus standing there for the first time.
"Well?" she demanded harshly. "What do you want? You have no business being in here. Get out!"
"I came to inquire about adoption," Marcus said, pleased at how well he hid his distaste for the woman.
"Adoption?" She smirked unpleasantly. "We don't have any children available."
"I just saw four of them go out that door," Marcus protested, as if he were a genuine potential parent.
"I said there aren't any available," Grelod growled. "Now are you going to leave, or do I have to call the Riften guard?"
"Some of them must get adopted," Marcus persuaded. "They can't stay here forever."
Grelod gave a long, scathing cackle that sounded suspiciously like Maiara when she found something exceedingly amusing that usually meant something terrible was about to happen to someone else.
"They'll stay here as long as I say they do," Grelod told him. "And the longer you stay, the worse it will be for those little knee-biters out there. Now for the last time, get out of here!"
Fuming, Marcus left. He stood outside the door for several minutes, composing himself. Dimly, he was aware that while the children were clearly in the yard on the other side of the wall, there was no sound of playing.
She needs to die, his inner dragon roared.
I'm not going to kill her in cold blood, he simmered. Even if she deserves it.
Challenge her to a duel, the dragon insisted. She must pay for her insolence!
Not going to happen, he gritted.
We can Shout her to death, his dragon grumbled.
You're not helping.
Making a decision, Marcus turned and mounted the steps to Mistveil Keep. He'd just see what the Jarl had to say about this.
Laila Law-Giver was lounging languidly on her throne when Marcus was permitted into her presence.
"How may I help you today, young man?" she asked, friendly enough. Beside her, an Altmer woman sat quietly, paying close attention to her Jarl. Behind, and to either side, two young men who looked enough like Laila to be her sons scowled at each other from separate corners of the room.
Looks like some sibling rivalry going on there, Marcus thought to himself. He and his sister had certainly had their squabbles growing up, but they'd become close as they'd gotten older. These two young men looked as though they'd like to stab the other's eyes out.
"I wanted to speak with you about the Orphanage, Jarl," Marcus said.
"The Orphanage?" Laila repeated. "You mean Honorhall? What about it?"
"I was curious to know why the children aren't being adopted out," Marcus said.
"They're not?" the Jarl said. "Why that's ridiculous! Of course they're being adopted. That's what the establishment is for."
"No, my lady, they're not," Marcus insisted. "I just spoke with the Headmistress, Grelod the Kind, who pretty much threw me out of there when I inquired."
Laila frowned and turned to the Altmer woman next to her. "Anuriel, what do you know of this matter?"
Anuriel threw a sharp look at Marcus before smiling at her Jarl. "There must be some simple misunderstanding, my Jarl," she soothed. "Maven assures me that the Orphanage is doing an excellent job at providing for those poor, unfortunate children. They have food, shelter and clothing, which they would not otherwise have."
"And what about education?" Marcus cut in. "What about training in a career…an apprenticeship to one of the tradespeople in the town, so they can learn skills that will help them provide for themselves when they're too old to remain at Honorhall?"
Anuriel gave him a look that spoke volumes. It clearly said, Stay out of this!
"I can assure you, my Jarl, that everything is being done to see to the needs of the children," Anuriel said. "I have Maven's word on that."
"Well, then," Laila said brightly, beaming at Marcus. "You see? It's all being taken care of. But thank you for your concern. We need more people like you in my city."
He was being dismissed, and he knew it, and it rankled. Especially when Anuriel narrowed her eyes at him. He decided to give it one more shot.
"Jarl Laila," he said, "aren't you even concerned about the money you're spending on Honorhall? About the accountability and making sure it's being spent on the children?"
Laila blinked at him, then smiled again. "Oh, I see! You think that I fund the institution! Oh, no, not anymore. It's true my father founded it years ago, before I was born, but Maven Black-Briar took it over about ten years ago, and it's been her concern ever since."
And that was that. Marcus bowed stiffly and left the Keep, mulling over what he'd learned.
Maven owned the Orphanage, not the Jarl. Maven funded the place, not Laila Law-Giver. Maven Black-Briar, who – according to the thug who had threatened him on his first trip here – had the guards in her pocket, the Thieves' Guild at her back, and even – if rumors were to be believed – had connections to the Dark Brotherhood.
She owned the meadery in town, as well. So the children who came out of Honorhall, untrained, unschooled, were the perfect employee for her, and the perfect recruits for the Thieves' Guild who "watched her back." He wondered if Brynjolf knew or cared where his raw recruits came from. Or perhaps Brynjolf had been one of those scared kids, shoved out into an unkind, unfeeling world, forced to do whatever he could to survive and get by. Rising up through the ranks of the Guild, he would have been more than willing to take and train those kids, to repay what the Guild had done for him.
Marcus shook his head. He was sick of corruption. His own world had been rife with it. He had never played the video game, "Skyrim", but he wondered now how much of what he'd seen so far had been written into it.
The afternoon was wearing on towards evening, and Marcus knew he had to make a decision. Grelod's death would certainly make a lot of children happy, he thought, but he was still against killing her in cold blood. He decided to try talking to her one more time, and returned to the Orphanage.
Entering the building once more, he saw the other woman, the younger one, who also lived here. Aventus had told him this would be Constance Michel. "Don't hurt her," Aventus begged. "She's nice to us."
"Miss Michel?" he asked, startling her. She dropped the basket of laundry she held with a small yelp. Ragged clothing fell all over the floor.
"I'm sorry!" Marcus said kindly. "I didn't mean to startle you. Here, let me help you with that."
"Oh, no, please, it's alright!" she said breathlessly, grabbing at the rags and shoving them back into the basket. "You shouldn't be in here. Please, you should go before Grelod see you." She looked up as he handed her a couple of tunics that were just out of her reach. "You! You were in here earlier, I remember you!"
She looked around furtively and hissed in a whisper, "Please go! If Grelod finds you've come back, I'm afraid of what she might do to the children!"
"It's the children whom I want to help," Marcus insisted.
"You can't," Constance sighed, hanging her head. "There aren't any up for adoption right now."
"Is this how they live?" Marcus asked. "What kind of life is that for them?"
Constance nodded. "Sadly, yes, it is. The townsfolk call her 'Grelod the Kind', but it's a sort of dark, running joke. Grelod runs this orphanage because she's old, and set in her ways, and doesn't know any other life. These children need love and comfort." Her eyes began to well with unshed tears of frustration. "I try, but…I'm sorry. You really need to go. The children aren't up for adoption, and it's cruel to get their hopes up. Besides…Grelod hates…visitors."
Especially visitors who ask too many pointed questions, Marcus thought grimly. "Alright," he said finally. "I'll just show myself out, then. Thank you for your time."
Constance nodded and took the basket of laundry down a flight of stairs, probably to wash them in the canal.
Left alone, Marcus crept down the hall past the rows of child-sized beds. He noted with horror and disgust that each was fitted with a set of shackles just small enough to fit a child's ankle.
She chains them to their beds at night! his dragon howled.
A room at the far end turned out to be Grelod's private chamber. Inside was a bed, night stand, chair and dresser. There was nothing extravagant or lavish in here, as if Grelod had pocketed the money given to her for the support and care of the children. Where had all the money gone, then? Or did Grelod now simply submit bills to Maven who paid them?
"What are you doing in here?" a harsh voice demanded.
Uh oh. He turned around to face a furious Grelod, rage all over her face, tightly gripping the stick with which she beat the children.
Her eyes widened in recognition as he turned to her. "You!" she shrieked. "I told you to get out of here! I won't stand for this! Those brats are staying here until I say they leave!"
"What, so you can throw them out on the street, uneducated, untrained, and unable to fend for themselves?" he threw at her. "That's pretty harsh."
"Life is harsh, in case you didn't notice," she snarled at him. "The world isn't a rosy place where parents love their children and take care of them. They throw them out because it's just too much trouble to take care of them. They either learn to survive or they die. That's the harsh reality of it, so they might as well get used to it."
"Are we talking about them, Grelod, or you?" Marcus shot back, instinct telling him this was personal for her.
"HOW DARE YOU! YOU INSOLENT PIG! YOU FILTHY, GRASPING, PAWING MAN!"
Oh, I think we struck a nerve, his inner dragon gloated. Marcus smugly agreed.
"You think all women are your private playthings and you can just do what you want with them!" she screamed. "You think you can just have your fun and walk away she tells you she's carrying your child!" Grelod's voice had risen at least another octave in pitch and was so loud they couldn't fail to hear her in Mistveil Keep. "You take her best years and walk away when she's too old to be of use! You make her raise your own by-blows by her successors!"
Grelod was literally spitting with rage, and her face was an unhealthy shade of reddish-purple.
"Your past has nothing to do with their present!" Marcus said hotly. "They're basically helpless and depend on you. I would think you'd want to help them, to keep what happened to you from happening to them!"
"YOU KNOW NOTHING ABOUT WHAT I WENT THROUGH!" she howled, but privately Marcus felt that even if he hadn't spoken with Edda, he could have pieced it together through Grelod's tirade. "THOSE BRATS ARE NOTHING TO ME, AND YOU—and you-"
Grelod gasped and clutched her chest. Alarmed, Marcus moved to help her sit down, but she stumbled away from him, out into the main hall, where the children had come in from outside and hovered near the door.
"You bastard!" Grelod wheezed. "You've…killed…me…."
She sank to the floor, eyes rolling back into her head. Quickly Marcus knelt down and felt for a pulse. Nothing.
Holy fuck, what have I done?
"By the Divines!" Constance cried behind him, startling him. "What have you done?"
"She's dead!" one of the boys crowed. "Grelod the Kind is dead!"
"Aventus really did it," the girl cheered. "He sent the Dark Brotherhood to kill Grelod!"
"Mara preserve us!" Constance gasped, her hand to her mouth. "You're…you're an assassin?"
"NO!" Marcus insisted, "I didn't touch her!" He looked helplessly down at Grelod. Damn it! He should have taken a class in First Aid. Lynne had, and wanted him to do it with her, but he hadn't been interested enough to bother. Lynne had earned her certification and learned how to do CPR. He wished he'd taken the time now. He had no idea what to do.
Constance began screaming in terror, running for the front door. The children were all dancing around, cheering.
"He's so good, he didn't even have to touch her!" one of the boys said admiringly.
This was quickly going to Hell in a hand-basket.
"Guard! Guard!" Constance cried from the doorway.
Better part of valor, Marcus, his inner dragon warned. Right. How to get out of here before the guards showed up?
"This way!" the girl hissed, beckoning. She pointed to a stairway leading down. The same stairway Constance had disappeared down earlier with the laundry.
Marcus nodded, making a break for it. "I owe you one, sweetheart!" he murmured to her, making her beam.
The stairs led down to a cellar with only one other door that opened into a short tunnel, which in turn opened onto the Ratway at canal level. The sluice gate at this end was normally kept closed, but twice a day both gates were opened to allow fresh lake water to be pumped through to flush the canal – and anything in it – out into Lake Honrich.
Having few options, Marcus jumped into the canal, came up immediately for air, and began swimming for all he was worth out the gate and into the lake. He continued around the fishery, coming ashore near the stables. Soaking wet, and not liking the smell that clung to him, Marcus decided not to wait for a carriage.
"How much for a horse?" he asked Shadr, who gazed at him in amazement.
"What happened to you?" the young Redguard asked.
"I'll explain later," Marcus insisted. "How much for a horse?"
"Hofgrir handles the sale of the horses," Shadr told him. He called the man over, and the transaction was swiftly made, though Marcus felt the one thousand gold price tag was a bit steep. It had taken nearly all the coin he carried on him. But at least he could get away. The dappled gray mare stood patiently waiting while he attempted to mount. And he realized another problem. He didn't know how to ride.
Shadr very gallantly helped him get mounted, murmured a few instructions and warned him to hang on tight if wolves were around because Sadie – the horse – didn't like wolves and would tend to bolt.
"She's fast," he told Marcus, "and she'll probably outrun them, but you'd better hang on tight."
As Marcus rode away, bumpily, he knew he was going to regret this in the morning.
I'm regretting it now. He knew instinctively that the little voice wasn't talking about horseback riding.
Marcus turned a sour thought directed at his inner dragon. Weren't you the one who wanted to kill her?
The dragon sniffed. We both did. I prefer a more hands-on approach.
Just who are you, anyway? Marcus asked privately, while he hung on desperately to the saddle horn with one hand.
There was smugness in the reply. Took you long enough to ask.
Well?
There was a pause. You're not ready for the answer.
Try me, he argued. I think I am.
That only proves that you aren't, his dragon said smugly, and subsided.
Marcus rode on through the night, and he had to admit that it got easier the further along he went. He kept to the roads, to avoid most of the wildlife, and because it was easier than trying to negotiate unknown territory in the dark. Sadie proved just how fast she could run when bandits stepped out from a copse of trees to attack. Clustered together, it was easy to use Unrelenting Force to blow them away and then dig his heels into Sadie and encourage her to put some distance between them. The howls and cries of disappointment behind him left him feeling smugly satisfied.
His original intention had been to just go home, but Marcus had promised Aventus he would return to let him know how the situation had been resolved. Besides, if he was being pursued, he didn't want to lead anyone to his home. Not that he thought the Riften guards would follow him to Whiterun Hold. That wasn't their jurisdiction. And honestly, he didn't know if anyone at Honorhall – or Mistveil Keep – even knew who he was. He'd never given his name.
He made it to the Windhelm stables just as the sun was coming up and left Sadie in their care, heading into town. He was stiff and sore from having ridden all night, but he quickly downed a healing potion with a stamina chaser before slipping into Aventus' home.
The boy was ecstatic when Marcus told him only that Grelod was dead, but not how she died.
"I knew you could do it!" he crowed, dancing about. "I can't wait to see my friends again! It'll be a lot nicer there, now old Grelod's gone! Here!"
He presented Marcus with a simple silver platter. "It's a family heirloom," he told Marcus. "I know these…things don't come cheap, so this should fetch you a fair amount of gold in payment."
Marcus wanted to refuse it; it was a cheap bit of silver, really, but the boy seemed to have his heart set on some kind of reward, and Marcus was reluctant to dim the hope that shone in the young lad's eyes for the first time since he'd met him. He accepted the platter graciously and ensured that Aventus would keep his promise to return to Honorhall.
"I promise, I will!" Aventus exclaimed, solemnly. "Like I said, with Grelod gone, I think my life has just gotten a whole lot better!"
For a heartbeat, Marcus was tempted to make him an even better offer, but he hesitated. Aventus had been dabbling with some pretty dark and dangerous rituals. Who knew what repercussions might come from that? What might have happened if the real Dark Brotherhood had shown up? Somehow they didn't strike him as an organization that would care if the client was only ten years old. They might even have been upset at being contacted over such a paltry contract rewarded by nothing better than a cheap silver platter.
Marcus shuddered inwardly. He was quite sure Aventus didn't fully appreciate the danger he'd put himself into by trying to summon paid assassins. Be that as it may, the fact that he was aware of them, as a ten-year-old, was disturbing; that he had tried to summon them, even more so; that he had hated someone enough to want to see them dead, and to actually take steps to carry it out, appalling. Marcus knew he didn't want that anywhere near his family. Let someone adopt Aventus who knew nothing about this business. The boy, by his own admission, missed his friends at Honorhall, and seemed willing to return now. Marcus was certain that Constance would take over management – he couldn't see Laila or Maven doing it – and the children would all finally get a chance to be adopted into permanent homes.
It really was the best possible solution. Hating himself for his shallowness, Marcus bid farewell to Aventus, and slipped a few more coins into the night stand unnoticed as he left the house.
He reclaimed Sadie from the stable and agonizingly hauled himself into the saddle. It was a long, painful ride back to Whiterun, made worse by the plaguing thoughts of his conscience. He left Sadie at the Whiterun stables with enough coin for the stablemaster, Skulvar, to see to her needs for a week, and headed home. He needed a bath, food and sleep, in that order, and he bloody well intended to get some.
[Author's Note: Just a short one this time, setting the stage for future events. And I think we all know where this will lead. I hope you enjoyed my way of Marcus taking out Grelod without laying a hand (or a Shout) on her. It was inspired, and I've been chuckling about it for days until I could get it written.]