Chapter 32
"I thought you said killing dragons was easy," Marcurio groused as they headed back to Riften from Lost Tongue Overlook. He was almost sure he had frostbite on his toes.
"They are," Marcus insisted. "Well, they were." He blew out a breath of frustration. "Truth is I think they're getting stronger."
"Oh, you think?" his companion said sarcastically.
Marcus couldn't really blame Marcurio. This wasn't what the 'college-trained' wizard had signed up for. He was a talented mage, had a wicked sense of humor, and Marcus liked him a lot, but he didn't want anything to happen to another companion, the way it had with Uthgerd.
Marcurio refused to wear armor, stating that it slowed him down and that his magic was strong enough to protect him. Against most other opponents, Marcus would agree, but the elder coldrake they fought a few hours earlier was cunning and stealthy. They attempted to sneak up on it, only to find it wasn't at the top of the peak, where the Word Wall was. When Marcus moved forward to get the Shout – Ru, which meant "run" – the dragon dropped out of a cloudbank practically on top of them, and continued to duck in and out of the fog, making it nearly impossible to predict where it would pop out next. As silent as an owl, they never heard it coming until it breathed on them as it passed. By the time Marcus could get a bead on it, it had disappeared back into the clouds.
Marcurio sent off his strongest fireballs, because they had the widest area of effect, but even then it took almost half an hour for them to force the beast to land so they could finally kill it. Marcurio balked at being laden down with bones and scales, however.
"I am a College-trained wizard, not a pack mule!" he groused. At Marcus' glare, he relented. "Oh, alright, but just this once!"
"You're hardly carrying anything," Marcus felt obliged to point out.
"That's irrelevant," Marcurio insisted. "But as it happens, I've got some room to spare. I think I used up all my magicka potions."
"You can buy more with the two hundred and fifty septims I owe you," Marcus grinned.
"That might get me one," the young Imperial shot back. "How's the foot?"
"Oh, it'll be alright," the Dragonborn said, ignoring the twinge from a twisted ankle. "I'm out of healing potions, though, and my Restoration skills aren't that strong."
"Are you sure you won't let me take a look at it?" Marcurio offered. "I'm well-skilled in all the arcane arts, as you know."
"Yeah, I think I heard that somewhere," the Dragonborn smirked. "Oh, right, it was from you!"
"Can't have you limping into Riften, you know," the mage said guilelessly. "You're the famous Dragonborn, of legend. According to all the tales, you're ten feet tall, breathe fire and eat dragons for breakfast."
"Flattery will get you nowhere," Marcus grunted. "I'm only six-foot-two, and I don't eat dragons, just their souls. The scales get caught in my teeth."
"Well, the part about breathing fire is correct, anyway. I've seen you do it. So I'm not really exaggerating."
Marcus gave the young Imperial a long look before finally giving in to amusement. "You know, Marcurio," he chuckled. "There's a shifty side to you I'm only just beginning to appreciate."
Marcurio grinned back. "What took you so long?"
Marcus parted company with the Imperial mage at the Bee and Barb, after handing over a rather large pouchful of coin.
"Here's the two-fifty I owed you," he told Marcurio, "as well as a tidy bonus for having my back out there."
Marcurio hefted the pouch and gave a soft whistle. There was at least double what the Dragonborn owed him in the purse, undoubtedly more, and that didn't even count some of the treasure they'd found that Marcus claimed he'd 'have no use for'; a staff, potions to boost specific schools of magic, and an expert set of mage robes which would offer Marcurio faster regeneration of his magicka and boost his destruction spells. He shook the Dragonborn's hand appreciatively. "You ever need my formidable arcane talents again, Marcus, you just let me know."
"I might, sooner rather than later," Marcus said, taking back the items the mage had been holding onto for him. "Thanks again."
He crossed the room to secure a room for the night, went upstairs to store some things in the trunk provided, then left the Barb to head down to the Ratway and the Ragged Flagon. It was already evening, so his meeting with Jarl Laila regarding the breaking up of the skooma operation would just have to wait until morning.
Vekel was still behind the counter of the Flagon when Marcus crossed the walkway, nodding to the bouncer, who opened his mouth to give a warning against causing trouble until he recognized who had entered. Delvin Mallory was seated at a table nearby talking with a Redguard woman in her forties.
"Ah! Dragonborn!" Delvin smiled when he saw Marcus. "Pull up a seat, have a drink!"
"Thanks, Delvin, I think I will."
The Redguard woman got up. "You can have mine. Delvin and I were finished anyway."
"So, to what do I owe the honor, Dragonborn?" Delvin asked as Vekel brought over a flagon of ale.
"I need to talk to Brynjolf," Marcus said. "Is he available?"
Delvin's face remained impassive, but he couldn't hide the overwhelming curiosity as he asked, "What's the problem? Anyfing I can help wif?"
"I'd rather keep it quiet, if you don't mind," Marcus insisted. "If Brynjolf isn't here, can you get word to him? I'm at the Bee and Barb, at least through tomorrow."
"I'll see what I can do," Delvin promised. "Bryn's been kinda busy lately. We've…uh…had a run of bad luck, but hopefully fings are turnin' 'round for the better."
"Well, tell Brynjolf this is a paying job," Marcus said. "That should light a fire under him."
Delvin chuckled. "I'll pass the word along, Dragonborn. And I never saw you in here." He gave a slow wink. Marcus grinned and thanked the little Breton, and made his way back to the Bee and Barb.
A ringing of hammer on metal caught his ear, and he followed it to the Scorched Hammer, the smithy that dominated one corner of the marketplace. The man working the forge was grizzled and middle-aged, but from the display of weapons and armor nearby, he was a true craftsman.
"Come to see Balimund perform miracles with steel, eh?" he chuckled, seeing his audience.
"You do some beautiful work," Marcus admitted, running his hand carefully down the blade of a carved Nordic greatsword.
"The secret is my forge," Balimund said proudly. "It uses fire salts to make the fire burn as hot as Red Mountain lava."
"Really?" Marcus said eagerly. "That's pretty impressive."
"Yeah," Balimund said. "I thought I was gonna run out a while ago. I was down to my last pinch of salts. Then this pretty little Breton girl came into town and volunteered to find some for me. Got me enough to last for quite a while now. That was real nice of her."
Tamsyn's been here, Marcus chuckled to himself. "You put in some late hours, my friend," he told the smith. "The last time I came through town late, you were still at your forge."
"I have to be," Balimund grunted. "There are too many other smiths out there in Skyrim that people could go to. If I want people coming to me, I've got to prove my steel's better than anyone else's. I'd even put it up against Eorland Gray-mane's Skyforge steel."
"So you make weapons and armor for the Stormcloaks, then?" Marcus asked, keeping his voice neutral.
The older man shrugged. "I make weapons and armor for anyone who pays me. Stormcloak, Imperial or Daedric Prince, I don't care. Long as the coin's good. Don't get too many of that last category, though," he chuckled. "Some people think I'm profiting from this war, but what else would I do? Smithing's what I know."
"You wouldn't happen to know how to work dragon bones and scales into armor, would you?" the Dragonborn asked.
Balimund's hammer stopped and he looked up. "Don't think anyone's ever asked me that before," he replied thoughtfully. "I think I've got a book that tells how, but dragons haven't been around in ages. And since they've come back, no one's lived long enough to pluck them." His eyes narrowed keenly at Marcus. "Dragonborn, eh?" he asked quietly. At Marcus' nod, he rubbed his chin. "If you get me the bones and scales, I'll see what I can do with them. I'll need to read that book again."
"I'll get you the materials," Marcus promised. "How much will it set me back?"
Balimund considered. "Well now, here's the thing," he said shrewdly. "Gray-mane's got his Skyforge steel, but I bet if I figure out how to work with dragon bones, I'd kind of have an edge on him. It would bring a lot more business my way. That kind of notoriety is worth more than money to me, as long as I'm the only one you're bringing the stuff to."
"Exclusive bragging rights in exchange for armor and weapons?" Marcus asked with a smile. At Balimund's nod he grinned openly and offered his hand. "It's a deal!" The two men shook hands, and Marcus went back to the Bee and Barb to retrieve the bones and scales from the two dragons he'd recently killed. It was the work of only a quarter hour to lug them back downstairs and hand them over to Balimund, who promised to send word to him at Breezehome in Whiterun when he had something to show for his efforts.
Returning to the Barb, Marcus ate a late supper then headed up to his room to get some sleep before meeting with Jarl Laila in the morning.
It was only after he'd closed the door that he sensed he wasn't alone. Swiftly drawing his Blades sword, his eyes searched the shadowy corners, finding the figure hiding there.
"Not so fast, lad," Brynjolf's voice chuckled, amused. "You were the one who requested this meeting."
Breathing a bit easier, Marcus sheathed the sword. "You could have sent a note, asking to meet me somewhere," he said sourly.
"That's not how we work, lad," Bryn said. He indicated the room's only chair. "Mind if I sit?"
Marcus gestured his permission and sat down on the bed.
"So what's this about, Dragonborn?" Bryn drawled. "Don't tell me you've changed your mind about joining my organization?"
Marcus rolled his eyes. "Dream on," he chuckled. "No, I'm looking for information. And I'm willing to pay well for it."
"What sort of information?" the red-haired thief asked lightly.
Marcus frowned. "I'm not sure, exactly. Here's the nutshell: I have it on pretty good authority that someone is going to make an attempt on Jarl Laila's life, but I don't have conclusive proof."
Brynjolf whistled. "That's a pretty serious accusation to make, lad," he murmured. "What makes you think the Jarl's in danger?"
Marcus shook his head. "Before I tell you that, I need to know where your loyalties lay."
"What, you mean in this war?" Bryn countered. "I'm a thief, Dragonborn, I have no loyalties. It makes no difference to me which side wins, as long as I'm not required to put my life on the line. Who cares which side worships which dead gods? The only deity I concern myself with is the one that looks out for me and my organization."
"What about loyalty to the Jarl?"
Brynjolf shrugged. "Same deal, lad," he said. "I don't much care whose backside is warming the throne up at Mistveil, as long as they leave me and mine alone."
"Delvin said your 'organization' wasn't doing so well," Marcus couldn't help pointing out.
"Delvin needs to learn to keep his big mouth shut," Bryn said sourly, and Marcus grinned.
"Hit a nerve, did I?"
"Alright," Brynjolf grumbled. "Since Delvin's already spouted off about it. What's that to you? I'd think you of all people would be happy about that."
"That depends," Marcus said carefully. "If your organization continues as it has done, it bothers me. I'll be honest with you: I don't much care for thieves. But if your organization turned to espionage instead of thieving, I think we could strike a deal."
Brynjolf considered this. "Espionage, eh? Fancy word for spying. What makes you think I'd be interested?"
"Information is at the heart of what you're already doing," Marcus pointed out. "Anybody can break into a house and steal things. The ones who aren't cut out for that sort of work are usually caught pretty quickly and dealt with by the authorities. The good ones live to try again. And what makes them good?"
"Experience," Bryn said.
Marcus shook his head. "Not always. Most of the time it's knowledge that makes a good thief. He learns when the best time to break in would be. He watches the patterns of the guards' patrols. He dresses accordingly in clothing or armor that will hide and protect him while giving him freedom of movement. He learns where all the exits are every time he enters a room. He puts up a front of respectability and always makes sure he's got a few alibis, in case he's questioned, so that no one will suspect he had anything to do with the crime."
Brynjolf gave another low whistle. "You're wasted as the Dragonborn, lad! You'd rise pretty high in our little family, given the right opportunities."
"I'm flattered," Marcus said drily. "Just because I know how to play the game, doesn't mean I want in, though."
"So what is it you want from me, then?" Brynjolf asked shrewdly. "Seems to me if it's information you're after, you'd be able to get it yourself quickly enough."
"Not without breaking a few rules, I wouldn't," Marcus said.
"Ah," Bryn nodded, understanding. "You want the information, but you're not prepared to break the law to get it." The red-haired thief gave a low chuckle. "That makes it all the more valuable, lad."
"I'm well aware of that," the Dragonborn sighed. "So, will you do it?"
"That all depends on what information you're looking to acquire," Brynjolf drawled. "You still haven't told me that."
Now we come to it, Marcus thought. Either he says yes, or I have to figure out a Plan B.
"I need information on Maven Black-briar," Marcus stated. "I have reason to believe she's behind a potential attempt on Jarl Laila's life."
There was stunned silence for several minutes while the best thief in Riften processed this statement.
"No," he said finally. "Absolutely not. Maven's untouchable."
"Is she?" Marcus demanded. "How?"
"She's got the city guard in her pocket and connections to the Dark Brotherhood—"
"The Dark Brotherhood is finished," Marcus said. "I took them out myself."
To his credit, Bryn didn't even blink. "I'd heard that, lad," he said, "but you don't understand—"
"I understand she's got your Guild watching her back," said the Dragonborn. "But where do you draw the line? You said you didn't care who sat on the throne at Mistveil, so why support an assassination attempt?"
"We're not," Brynjolf snapped.
"Aren't you?" Marcus pressed. "If you sit back and do nothing, and let Maven go ahead with her plans, you'll be an accessory."
Brynjolf shifted uneasily. "Only if she's found out," he said.
"I've already got evidence," Marcus said. "That by itself is enough to damn her in the eyes of the Empire. They take assassinations very seriously, I understand."
"Then why do you need my help?" Brynjolf lashed out.
"Because I know Maven's in with the Thalmor!"
There was silence again for several heartbeats.
"I don't believe that, lad," Bryn said, but his voice was clearly shaken. "I can't believe…after what happened with Etienne…Maven wouldn't—"
"She could and she did, Bryn," Marcus said, relentlessly. "Here." He pulled out Elenwen's journal and opened it to the passages regarding the head of the most powerful family in the Rift. "Read this."
It was several long moments before Brynjolf handed the journal back. He brooded for several more before speaking.
"If what you're saying is true, if Maven has allied herself with the Thalmor, then she's betrayed the Guild. She was supposed to be our patron, funneling jobs our way, getting herself a tidy cut of the profits."
"She believes the Thalmor will set her up as Jarl of Riften, even if her attempts on Laila's life are unsuccessful," Marcus said quietly.
Brynjolf snorted. "So they're duping her. That's not an easy thing to do."
"They're Altmer," Marcus replied. "They've had a long time to get real good at it."
"I don't know what to believe anymore," Brynjolf gave an exasperated sigh.
A hefty coin pouch was tossed into his lap. He weighed it in his hand and looked up at the Dragonborn.
"Believe in what you've always believed in," Marcus said quietly. "All I want is proof; information. Is Elenwen's journal correct? Is Maven going to make an attempt on Jarl Laila's life? There's another pouch that size waiting for you, regardless what you find. I just need proof, one way or the other. I realize she was your patron, but she's screwed you over. Her dealings with the Thalmor go back to before I found Etienne in the Embassy torture chambers. Maven had to have known about it. What's her policy regarding Guild members who get caught? Does she stand by you, or disavow any knowledge of your actions?"
Bryn didn't answer. He didn't need to.
"I'll be here until the day after tomorrow," Marcus told him, "then I have to head back home. If you can find anything out, let me know as soon as you can. Jarl Laila's life may depend on it. Whatever you think about her as Jarl of Riften, no one deserves to die like that."
He realized as he spoke the words that he believed them himself. He might not feel that Laila was the best Jarl for Riften, but she didn't deserve a blade in the dark across her throat.
It was a troubled thief that left the small room – out the window, of course – and Marcus was tempted to lock it after the red-haired man. But he reasoned that Bryn might try to come back in with information the same way. Confident he'd hear anyone attempting to come in that way, he left it alone.
In the morning he sold off some of the things he'd picked up at Cragslane Cavern and Lost Tongue Overlook, then sought out the alchemist's shop to restock his dwindling supply of healing and stamina potions. Hafjorg, the alchemist's wife, was a charming older woman with a wicked sense of humor, who was more than willing to let Marcus experiment at the alchemy lab, giving him pointers and suggestions about which ingredients could be combined to create the potions he needed. They weren't that strong, but Hafjorg assured him with practice he'd get better.
He ended up making a quick trip north to Shor's Stone to retrieve an ore sample as a return favor for her expertise, and this led to helping Filnjar clean out Redbelly Mine of some rather large, nasty frostbite spiders that had decided to take up residence. Filnjar paid him handsomely for his efforts, though he assured the man it wasn't necessary, and he returned to Riften to give the sample to Hafjorg.
"Thank you so much for doing this," the old woman beamed at him. "I'll be sure to get Elgrim to look at this as soon as his…ahem…busy schedule permits," she continued wryly, with a twinkle in her eye. "I had him make you a few potions, too, in thanks."
Marcus left Elgrim's Elixirs and returned to the Bee and Barb for a late afternoon meal. He was enjoying Keerava's special beef stew ("I use wine in the gravy," she confided) when Marcurio came over and joined him, and together the two men enjoyed the meal and the company of Riften's citizenry. While some complained about the Empire, others were more concerned with just going on about their jobs at the meadery or the fishery.
A wandering bard came in as the last light of the sun left the skies, and Keerava hailed him from behind the counter.
"Talsgar!" she called warmly to the middle-aged Nord. "Come to entertain us with your songs and stories tonight?"
"If it will get me bed and board, then yes, lovely lady!" the minstrel replied with a winning smile.
The Argonian woman simpered, and her companion, Talen-Jei paused a moment in sweeping floors to scowl at the man. He looked as though he might have said something, but one of the more inebriated patrons called him over.
"Talen!" the man said aggressively. "Another round!"
"I think you've had plenty, Vulwulf," Talen cautioned the man. "Maybe you should head on home."
Vulwulf narrowed his bleary eyes. "You stupid lizard!" he spat. "I said give me some more drink, or I'll have your head on a pike!" The younger man at the table with him cringed, but said nothing.
Undaunted, as if he'd heard it all before, the Argonian innkeeper shrugged. "Suit yourself," was his only comment as he left to get the requested drinks.
Marcus frowned. The man was already practically falling out of his chair, and he didn't like his treatment of the staff. He rose, ignoring Marcurio's attempts to call him back and tell him not to get involved.
Vulwulf felt a hand on his shoulder and tried to focus on the face of the man to whom it belonged. When he realized it was an Imperial who stood before him, he scowled.
"Be brief, Imperial," he sneered. "There's only so long I can stand being downwind of your stench."
Marcus frowned. "You're no spring flower yourself, friend. I think Talen-Jei is right. You've had enough to drink."
Vulwulf sputtered. "Who in Oblivion are you to tell me when I've had enough?" he demanded, staggering to his feet. Swaying slightly, he glared at the Dragonborn, trying to bring one of the three wavering figures into focus. "Damned stinking faithless Imperials!" he ranted. "Coming into our country and telling us how to run things! You take our history, you take our gods, and you take our sons and daughters, all in the name of some damned treaty with a bunch of pointed-eared daedra-spawn! I lost my daughter…my beautiful Lilija…to you Imperial bastards, and by Talos I'll not lose anyone else!"
"I'm truly sorry for your loss," Marcus said sincerely. "But there's no need to take it out on Talen-Jei. He had nothing to do with it. And—"
"My daughter served as a Battle-Maiden years ago when the first skirmishes broke out," Vulwulf went on, as if Marcus hadn't even spoken. "She used her healing arts to help those that fell on the battlefield. She never even lifted a blade in her life. It didn't matter…the Imperial soldiers cut her down…killed her like a dog and left her body to rot in the mud. And that's why I won't rest easy until every single Imperial soldier joins her, and Ulfric sits upon the throne of Skyrim!"
At this point the younger man spoke up nervously. "Father, this man is right. We should head home."
"Support Ulfric or die trying," Vulwulf rambled drunkenly, stumbling over the chair. The younger man caught and supported him. "There's nothing in between. Remember that, Asgeir."
"I will, Father," Asgeir replied. "I thank you for your concern, stranger," he said to Marcus. "And for not lashing out at him," he added quietly. "Father hasn't been the same since…" His voice trailed off.
"Take him home," Marcus said, feeling an unexpected wave of sympathy for the older man. "When he sobers up tomorrow – if he does – impress upon him if you can the need for treating the proprietors here with better courtesy."
Asgeir merely nodded and helped his father to the door.
"Well," Marcurio breathed out as Marcus returned to his seat. "That could have gotten ugly."
"No," Marcus replied. "He's a grieving father. His views might be extreme, but his grief is real. There would be no point in fighting him."
"You are a singularly unique and strange person, my friend," Marcurio observed.
Marcus shrugged. Vulwulf's outburst had only highlighted what Marcus already knew: both sides were losing in this civil war, and the sooner it could be resolved and brought to an end, the sooner the province could begin to heal. It might take a lifetime to do that, but it had to happen. The alternative was an embittered, resentful people, who would be – in Abraham Lincoln's words – "a house divided against itself."
The rest of the evening passed more enjoyably, as Talsgar stepped up to sing several songs and recite epic poetry from memory. At one point he challenged anyone in the room to sing a song or recite a poem he didn't already know. Those who succeeded were rewarded with a drink on him. It was tempting, but Marcus felt he would have an unfair advantage, and he wasn't sure how well "Sweet Home Alabama" would translate here. So he said nothing and merely enjoyed watching and listening, trading comments with Marcurio about their performances.
At length, he bid his companion good-night and retired. At the door of his room he listened carefully before entering, but heard nothing. Slipping in, he glanced around and found a darker shadow in the corner that didn't belong there.
"Thought you were going to carouse all night, lad," Brynjolf chuckled.
"I wasn't carousing," Marcus denied. "I was enjoying the company. Shall I infer that your presence here means you've found something…or not?"
"I found this in the basement of Black-Briar Manor," Brynjolf said shortly, handing Marcus a piece of parchment. The Dragonborn took it and opened it.
"Astrid, I thought your people were supposed to be reliable. I've performed the Black Sacrament, I've paid the proper penance and I've waited patiently for results. If you can't handle a simple assassination, I'll find someone who can. I want this contract handled, and I want it handled immediately! –Maven Black-Briar."
"Astrid?" Marcus blurted.
"Aye, lad," Bryn replied, troubled. "I found it near a rotting corpse in a circle of candle stubs. Maven clearly attempted the Black Sacrament, but for whatever reason, this note was never sent."
"She may have found out that someone took out the Dark Brotherhood by the time she wrote this," Marcus mused.
"Someone meaning you," Bryn drawled.
"Someone meaning me," Marcus acknowledged. "Did you find anything else? She could have been performing the ceremony for anyone."
"She could have," Bryn nodded. "Before I give you what else I found, I want to know one thing."
"And that is?"
"Is your offer to support my Guild genuine?" Brynjolf demanded. "If we leave off thieving and become spies, will you be the patron? My Guild depends on what we…acquire to handle our overhead. If Maven is removed, we'll need financial support if we're going to be putting our lives on the line to find out the things you and the Empire want to know."
"I haven't said I've thrown my lot in with the Empire," Marcus replied.
Brynjolf shrugged. "You didn't have to, lad," he smirked. "Even a blind man could see you're looking for ways to discredit Maven Black-Briar. I have to ask myself, 'Why?' Why are you going to all this trouble?"
"I have my reasons," Marcus said stiffly.
"Aye, lad," Bryn smiled. "And I need to know them before I commit my resources to be at your disposal. Let me tell you what I've learned so far." He leaned back and ticked off his points on his fingers. "First, you take out the Dark Brotherhood. I never would have thought that possible, but somehow you did it. Maven had pretty close ties to Astrid and her gang, so you've effectively hamstrung her ability to eliminate anyone who pissed her off. Next, you breeze into Riften and stir up a hornet's nest over the Orphanage. I don't mind telling you I'm glad about that one. I never really liked taking those kids in, but where else could they have gone? Haelga's?" He shuddered before continuing.
"Then you start helping people all over town, and the next thing I know, you're busting up a skooma operation that Maven was also involved in. She was pretty mad about that, I can tell you."
"Too bad," Marcus said shortly. "Is that it?"
"No, lad," Bryn chuckled. "You broke into the Thalmor-fucking-embassy!" He shook his head in admiration. "Even I never had the guts to do that!"
"In point of fact I broke in twice," Marcus clarified. "The second time was because they kidnapped my children. I'd do it again in a heartbeat."
Bryn's eyes widened. "Did you…?" he began, drawing a finger across his throat, but Marcus shook his head.
"No, I didn't kill Elenwen. I wanted to, but I didn't."
Brynjolf blew out a breath. "Well, then, you certainly know how to pick your enemies. But with the Thalmor Ambassador dead, Maven needs to start over again, and that's something I'm having a hard time reconciling myself to."
"What's your point, Brynjolf?"
The red-haired thief sat up straighter. "My point is that you've already accomplished enough for me to know I wouldn't want to cross you," he replied. "But I'm also not sure I want to align myself and my organization with you. As I said, we have overhead to cover. If my little family isn't out there acquiring…wealth, I may not be able to hang onto them. And I'm also not a hundred percent sure they want to quit the life they've become accustomed to, even if you made it worth their while. Spying is quite a bit different from thieving, after all."
"I realize that," Marcus acknowledged. "Just know this: I'm prepared to give you an open-ended contract. You come to me with important information, and I'll make sure you're well paid for it. Right now, what I'm most interested in is keeping Maven Black-Briar from becoming Jarl of Riften." He tossed Brynjolf a hefty coin-purse, and the red-haired thief caught it on the fly.
Brynjolf weighed the pouch in his hand. The Dragonborn was generous, that much was certain. Some might have assumed the man was a fool, but Brynjolf had a strong feeling they would be making a fatal error. "I can't help but wonder why you care so much," he said now. "You're an Imperial; she's a Nord with Imperial sympathies. I'd have thought you'd prefer her over Laila."
"Just because I'm an Imperial doesn't mean I like everyone who swings that way," Marcus retorted. "I knew people like Maven where I came from," he continued. "Cold-hearted bastards who would step on anyone to climb the ladder of success. Corrupt politicians who held themselves above the law, yet vilified anyone else who did the same things they were doing, but who were stupid enough to get caught. Corporate executives who earned six- and seven-figure salaries, but shot down any attempt to regulate a living wage for the people they employed. There are a lot of social injustices I fought back then," he told the red-haired thief. "But the biggest one I fought against was hypocrisy, and Maven Black-Briar is one of the biggest hypocrites I've ever had the displeasure to learn about."
"You haven't even met her, then?" Brynjolf asked.
"No, and I don't want to," Marcus said. "She pretends to be an upstanding citizen of the Rift, yet she has all this underhanded stuff going on just below the surface. And the worst of it is that everyone seems to know, but does nothing to stop her. Well, everyone but Mjoll, perhaps. I don't need to meet Maven to know she's just as bad as the parasites I left behind."
Brynjolf considered this for a long moment. "If you aren't careful lad," he said slowly, "I might just come to respect you." All his life, Brynjolf had heard the bards' tales and stories of the heroes of old. When he was just a wee lad himself, on his father's farm, he had listened to the songs and pretended he was Ysgramor himself, or Tiber Septim, defending the Nord people from all oppressors. But the Thalmor had come and taken his father away, and he'd never seen him again.
His mother grew ill and passed away soon after, and Brynjolf had found himself in Honorhall with no one but the other children to comfort him in his grief. In very short order, his foolish fantasies about being a hero were beaten out of him. Little Constance had been his closest friend, and the only one who cared what happened to him until she had been selected by Grelod to be her assistant at the tender age of twelve. They drifted apart, then, until Bryn had been thrown into the streets two years later where a young Breton named Delvin Mallory had taken him down into the Ratway and taught him the skills he needed to survive.
But deep down inside, where he always kept it carefully hidden, Bryn desperately wanted to be a hero. Well, he had accomplished that much, at least in his own little world. Mercer Frey had betrayed them, and Maven had known about his extravagances and turned a blind eye. If it hadn't been for that pretty little Breton girl, Tamsyn, coming out of nowhere and tipping him off – and just how had she known what she did? – he and the rest of the Guild might never have known until it was too late.
Now, Karliah was back in the Guild's good graces, and Sapphire had become the third Nightingale – again, at Tamsyn's suggestion – restoring the Trinity and returning the Skeleton Key to the Twilight Sepulcher. And on top of all of this, the Dragonborn – the Dragonborn, for Shor's sake – had asked for his help. Of all the tales of old he'd ever heard while growing up, the stories of the Dragonborn were the ones he'd loved the most.
"Here," he said, suddenly, handing Marcus a slim journal before he changed his mine. "You never got this from me," he warned.
Marcus opened the leather-bound book and saw the same firm, upright handwriting he recognized from the note; Maven's handwriting.
"I'll be going now," Brynjolf said.
"What do I owe you for this?" Marcus asked suspiciously. Maven's own personal journal was worth far more to him than the pouch of coin he'd already given the thief.
Bryn quirked a lopsided grin. "Let's just say you owe me a favor to be named later," he smirked.
"You haven't said whether you accepted my proposal yet or not," Marcus reminded him as the red-haired thief was halfway out the window.
Brynjolf ducked his head back in for a moment. "No, I didn't, lad, did I?" he chuckled. Then he was gone.
"1st Heartfire, 4E 201: Mercer seems to have come into a source of wealth of his own. He refuses to explain; simply tells me his 'side jobs' are panning out well. I don't care as long as he and the Guild continue to get the jobs done that I need doing.
"11th Frostfall, 4E 201: Time to do something about Laila. Stupid woman had the audacity to question me about my knowledge of the Thieves' Guild. She'd better keep her nose out of my business or I'll cut it off.
"29th Frostfall, 4E 201: Damn Aringoth! What is going on with that man? How dare he tell me he will no longer be my supplier? Better get Mercer on this right away.
"10th Sun's Dusk, 4E 201: What is so hard about finding out what Aringoth is up to? Is Mercer running a Guild or a charity ward? This is what I get for funneling those brats from Honorhall into the Guild. Not a single damned one of them knows what they're doing. I'd cut Mercer off, except it doesn't seem as though that's as much of a threat as it used to be. I've been hearing workmen over at his place. What in Oblivion is he doing over there?
"23rd Evening Star, 4E 201: I've had it with that woman. This is the last straw. How dare she hint that I have ties to the Dark Brotherhood? Even if it's true! I'll show her Dark Brotherhood! I haven't wanted to resort to this, but Laila Law-Giver needs to die. I have everything I need to perform the Black Sacrament. Tonight.
"31st Evening Star, 4E 201: Elenwen assures me that if the Dark Brotherhood is successful in assassinating Laila, that she will convince that fool Tullius to put in a good word with that simpering waif Elisif to make me Jarl of Riften. Interesting side note: Elenwen also told me she has a lead on whoever it was who broke into her solar during the party last month. She didn't say who she thought it might be, but I'm no fool. There was only one person there I didn't recognize: a rather attractive young Imperial that I never got a chance to talk to. Pity.
"2nd Morning Star, 4E 201: Mercer finally sent someone to check out Goldenglow Estates. It seems Aringoth sold the place to an unknown buyer. Mercer is looking into it, but I asked to speak with the agent he sent. Anyone with brains enough to get in there and out again with the proper information deserves meeting face-to-face. The girl is sullen and has a chip on her shoulder, but she's smart, takes orders, and seems to be able to handle herself. I'm sending her to Whiterun to talk to Mallus. Honingbrew is becoming more and more a boil on my backside that I don't need.
"4th Morning Star, 4E 201: Damnation! The same person who bought Goldenglow appears to be interfering with the East Empire Company as well. Mercer's sending that Sapphire girl to check it out. Whoever this person is, they will regret tangling with me.
"18th Sun's Dawn, 4E 201: Still no word from Mercer. Brynjolf says he had to 'go away' on business. Stupid fool! I'm the only 'business' they need to concern themselves with. Mercer had better get his backside back to Riften soon or there will be Oblivion to pay. On a side note: I still haven't heard from Astrid about the contract. What is keeping that woman? Does no one seem to care that I'm ready to throw money at them?
"7th First Seed, 4E 201: Some Imperial jackanapes who called himself 'Marcus of Whiterun' has been inquiring about Honorhall. The next thing I know, Laila's poking her nose into my business again. Where in Oblivion is Astrid? Why isn't she answering my summons? Do I have to bring in the Morag Tong from Morrowind?
"23rd First Seed, 4E 201: If it can get much worse, I don't see how. Heard from Brynjolf that Mercer is dead. Stealing from the Guild is stealing from me. If Brynjolf's little protégé Sapphire hadn't killed him, I would have strangled him myself. How dare he?! Also heard from that smug bitch Laila that the Dark Brotherhood has been destroyed. This happened just this week, so it doesn't explain why Astrid never responded to my Black Sacrament. Shoddy way to run a business, if you ask me. No wonder she's dead now, killed by someone called the Dragonborn. Isn't he a bit long in the tooth to be fighting crime? The last Dragonborn I heard about was a couple hundred years ago, but I don't remember if he was man or mer. It doesn't matter. If this keeps up, I'm ruined!
"2nd Second Seed, 4E 201: I've just about had it up to here with this 'Marcus of Whiterun'. Now he's shut down the Cragslane operation. This only leaves me with the meadery and a rather discontented Guild to work with. With Sibbi in jail and Hemming worse than useless, only Ingun is out there actually trying to make some coin by fiddling with her alchemical experiments. I'd suggested to Brynjolf that I would be more than willing to pay for someone to slip some of Ingun's 'special brew' into this 'Marcus of Whiterun's' mead, but he refused. REFUSED! Who does he think he is? I own that Guild! They answer to ME, not the other way around!"
Marcus closed the journal. So Maven was nettled that he was whittling down her syndicate? Good. He'd only just begun to irritate her. He blew out the candle and rubbed his eyes, lying down on the bed in the dark, not even bothering to undress; never a good idea in Riften, anyway, to go to sleep unarmored.
In the morning he would seek another audience with Laila Law-Giver and let her know what Maven had been planning. He already knew how he was going to handle it. Once he was sure he had diffused that volatile situation he would head to Solitude, stopping home in Whiterun first to check on the family. He was fairly certain General Tullius would find the two journals just as interesting as he had. Tamsyn's words of several weeks ago rang in his ears.
"General Tullius might be very interested in its contents, but he would want to know how you came by it, and that would mean confessing you took it from the Thalmor Embassy itself."
Well, that was just tough. If the General was any kind of tactician, and if – from what Tamsyn had let drop – he had no more love for the Thalmor than the Dragonborn did, Marcus was pretty sure he'd want to do a bit of not-so-light reading.
With Elenwen permanently out of the picture, it was only right that General Tullius be alerted to the fact that the Thalmor were far more prepared to launch another imminent war against the Empire than anyone suspected. And maybe…just maybe…he might decide to commit himself to the cause after all.
"It's out of the question," Anuriel glared. "Jarl Laila does not give private audiences."
"Why don't you ask her first?" Marcus did his best to remain calm and not glare back. He knew he'd have this hurdle to navigate, but it was critical that he speak to Laila alone, without her Steward or Housecarl present.
"I don't need to ask her," Anuriel declared. "What you're asked for is impossible. No Jarl in Skyrim will agree to meeting privately with any petitioner without at least a Housecarl present."
That wasn't strictly true, Marcus knew. Balgruuf often dismissed Proventus and his brother Hrongar in order to have a nice, quiet, private conversation with him without someone hanging over his shoulder, fussing in the background. Well, at least Proventus fussed. He didn't know about the other Jarls' Stewards.
He could see Laila sitting at the top of the hall, beyond the long dining tables, and wondered if he used Whirlwind Sprint, would he get there and be able to make his request before he got hauled out?
He needn't have worried. Jarl Laila caught him looking at her and smiled.
"Ah! Young Marcus of Whiterun!" she exclaimed. "So good to see a familiar face again! Come forward!"
Anuriel gritted her teeth and simmered while Marcus did his best not to gloat as he passed her on his way up to the throne.
"How may I help you today, young man?" Laila asked.
"It is rather I who would like to help you again, Jarl," Marcus said. "I would speak with you…privately."
"Indeed?" Laila's eyebrows met her crown. "Not many ask for a private audience with me," she remarked.
Not many get past your bitch-hound, he thought, but kept that to himself. Aloud he said, "I wouldn't normally ask this, Jarl, but my reasons are personal and…private." He gave her his most charming smile, and Laila repressed a girlish giggle. Good, let her think he found her attractive. That would make this so much easier.
"Anuriel, hold all my other appointments," she told her Steward. "You and Unmid should be able to handle things for a short time while I'm otherwise…occupied." She batted her eyelashes coyly at Marcus, who would have laughed had the situation not been so serious.
Anuriel repressed a frown and pasted a smile on her face. "Of course, my Jarl," she replied. The look she shot Marcus was pure unadulterated hate. He could see the gears turning in her head, however, from the calculated glare, and knew she was already trying to figure out how to circumvent this latest development.
Give it your best shot, bitch, he thought. I'm on my guard.
Laila led him upstairs to her private quarters, a part of Mistveil Keep he'd never been in before. While the structure was still made almost entirely of wood, there was a lavishness to the décor that contrasted starkly with the bleakness of the town outside the palace walls. Most of Riften might be suffering from poverty, but that did not extend to its Jarl. Marcus made a superhuman effort to erase the scowl from his features before Laila could see it.
Once in her private chambers, she produced a bottle of wine and two glasses, pouring some in each and offering one to him. He graciously took the proffered glass but declined to drink, asking instead.
"Are you certain we're completely alone?"
"This is Mistveil Keep, in the heart of Riften," Laila smiled. "Of course we're not completely alone. But if you wish, I'll order the guards away." Again she gave him a girlish giggle as she opened the door to dismiss the guards on duty. A few of them protested, but some stern orders from their Jarl had them heading back downstairs.
"Now we're alone," she leered. "And I think you might be wearing far too much armor."
As pick-up lines went, it wasn't bad, he had to admit. But he held up a hand before she could touch him and whispered, "Laas."
"What was that?" Laila asked fearfully, withdrawing nervously. "What did you just do?"
"Just making sure we're really alone," he murmured looking around. Infra-red images from the hall below showed up, as well as one figure much closer, behind a wall on the north side of the room.
"Now then, where were we?" he continued, taking Laila in his arms and bending her back, turning them both away from the wall. His face was close to hers, and she closed her eyes, anticipating the kiss that never came.
"Please forgive the deception, Jarl," he whispered. "I have reason to believe your life is in danger." Anyone watching would think they were locked in a romantic embrace. Anyone listening would hear only indistinguishable whispers.
"What?" she breathed, confused. She opened her eyes. "Who are you?"
"I'm Marcus, called Dragonborn," he muttered. "Please keep up this pretense. There's someone behind the wall watching us."
"There is?" Laila whispered. Her eyes narrowed. "You're the Dragonborn?"
He nodded. Anyone watching would merely believe they were really getting into the kiss they didn't know wasn't happening.
"Well, then, let's give them something to talk about, shall we?" Laila smiled craftily, and she put her arms around his neck, dragging his mouth down to hers.
Nice plan you've got going there, Dragonborn, his inner dragon, Akatosh, smirked. When you came in here, did you have a plan for getting out?
Marcus couldn't even respond. All his concentration was being taken up with remaining as impassive to Laila's kiss as possible, while making it look like he was enjoying it.
Is this what actors in your world do when they have to kiss someone they loathe? the Dragon-God of Time chuckled.
He was so not helping, Marcus thought obliquely, and finally pulled away from Laila, who looked a little flushed.
Tamsyn must never know about this, he promised himself. "Laas," he whispered again. The red blob was still there behind the wall, but he noticed a decided lack of life beyond a door on the west side of the room.
"What's out there?" he murmured.
"The balcony," Laila said. "It has a wonderful view of the lake."
"I'd very much like to see it," he smiled for the benefit of whomever was watching them.
"Let me show you," the Jarl simpered, taking his arm in hers and leading him out.
At the furthest end of the balcony they were also farthest away from prying ears and eyes.
"Now," Laila said, all business-like. "What's this all about?" There was nothing of the clinging, smitten, love-struck girl about her now.
She was acting? Marcus realized.
A dry chuckle in his mind told him Akatosh was still there. Disappointed?
Not in the slightest, Marcus denied, not entirely truthfully. But she deserves an Academy Award for that performance! Laila was waiting, however, and he turned his attention to her.
"Maven Black-Briar is going to attempt to assassinate you," he said briefly.
Laila didn't seem unnerved by this. "Maven and I don't get along," she admitted soberly, "but I hardly think she'd stoop to murder."
"She's already tried," Marcus replied quietly, just in case anyone might still be attempting to listen in from the shrubbery below. He told Laila about the Black Sacrament ceremony gone wrong and about Anuriel's connection to the Thalmor.
"You have proof of this?" Laila demanded. Marcus nodded. "What am I supposed to do, then?" she sighed. "I had no idea this was going on!"
"To be blunt, Jarl, you've been blind to a lot of things going on in your Hold," he replied truthfully. "Anuriel has been feeding you only the information she wants you to know."
"She told me the rumors of the skooma operation were being spread by the Empire," Laila frowned. "Yet when you showed up in Riften and began questioning things, I made a few inquiries of my own. I had only just found out that Anuriel was wrong when you came back to Riften and presented your evidence."
"Jarl Laila, far be it from me to tell you who to trust, but Anuriel has never had your best interests at heart. "
"I know she and Unmid have an intimate relationship going on," Laila said bluntly. "They think I haven't noticed, and that they're being very clever keeping secrets from me."
"Then it's possible she's swayed Unmid to her side," Marcus mused.
"I've tried to go down into the town to walk among my people, but he persuaded me not to," the Jarl of Riften admitted. "He said that Imperial agents might use that opportunity to do me harm."
Marcus frowned. "The only risk to your life right now is within your own court, Jarl," he reminded her. "How many of the guards can you trust?"
"What do you mean?"
"It's all over town that Maven has the city guard in her back pocket," he explained patiently. "If she's been attempting to have you killed, it's almost certain some of your personal guards are in her pay."
Laila's eyes widened in horror as the implications sank in. "She wouldn't do that, would she?"
"I don't think it's a question any more of 'would she'," he replied. "How loyal is your court mage?"
"Wylandriah?" Laila blinked. "I…I honestly don't know anymore." She rested her elbows on the balcony railing and put her head in her hands. "I've been such a blind fool! I don't know who to trust anymore."
"Recriminations won't save your throne, Jarl," he said bluntly. "Do you believe you can trust Wylandriah?"
"I…I think so," Laila answered. "At least, there's no love lost between her and Anuriel. They're always sniping at each other, and Wylandriah can't stand Unmid. I've always been irritated with her over that before, but perhaps she saw something I never did."
Marcus was quite certain there were a lot of things Laila never saw before now, but he held his tongue. No sense in antagonizing the woman. She already felt bad enough.
"Is there a place we can talk with her without arousing suspicion?" he asked now.
"There's Honeyside," Laila offered. "It's empty now, but I hold the key. If you became my Thane, I'd let you buy it from me. It's right down on the lakeshore and has its own dock."
Marcus considered this. It might just be the ideal solution. "Alright," he said finally. "Here's what we should do." He outlined his plan to the Jarl of Riften, who smiled, then chuckled, and finally breathed a sigh of relief.
"You believe this will work?" she pressed.
"I'm pretty confident it will," he assured her. "You do your part, and I'll be sure to do mine."
Accordingly, he left her and returned to the Bee and Barb to await her summons. In the meantime, he sent a letter home by courier, stating that he was going to be delayed a couple more days, but would be home soon.
He felt only a slight twinge of regret that he wasn't being entirely truthful with Laila. If he sided with the Empire to end the civil war, she would be replaced anyway. But he'd rather deal with her than Maven.
The summons came the next day, as expected. He made sure his armor was clean and in good repair before presenting himself to Jarl Laila to receive the title of Thane of Riften from her in recognition of his services. He then handed a glowering Anuriel several pouches of gold in exchange for the deed and key to Honeyside. Laila then told him she had given him a Housecarl to watch over his property. He thanked her and left to inspect his new home.
Well, in point of fact, it would never be his home. It was merely another piece of property he owned, in addition to Breezehome and Vlindrel Hall.
Honeyside was really more of a log cabin by the lake than an actual home. Knowing he wouldn't be bringing the children here, he had opted to have the alchemy lab and enchanter's table installed instead. His new Housecarl, Iona, was a short, stocky, red-haired Nord woman who greeted him enthusiastically and assured him everything was in place.
He eyed her curiously. "To whom do you owe your allegiance?" he asked her.
Iona blinked in surprise. "Why, to you of course, Thane," she replied. "But my assignment came from Jarl Laila herself. I wasn't even on the short list the Steward drew up, so it came as a great surprise to me, as well as an honor, that I was selected to be your Housecarl."
Marcus breathed a sigh of relief. This was one thing he could be thankful to Laila for. It worried him that his actions might be reported back to Anuriel.
"We will be having guests arriving later this evening," he told her now.
"Yes, Thane," Iona said. "I've prepared the back porch."
"Oh?" Curious, he followed her out the back door and onto the large, sprawling deck. The view out over the lake was actually quite beautiful in the late afternoon sunlight, and Marcus thought that if he ever decided to take up fishing, this would be the spot from which to do it. A table and some comfortable chairs had been set up back here, as well as mead cooling in a bucket of ice.
"Excellent," he approved, heading back inside. The porch was private enough that no one could overhear anything they shouldn't.
Later that evening, a quiet knock came to the back door, and Iona opened it to admit two heavily-cloaked figures, who revealed themselves to be Jarl Laila and her court mage, Wylandriah, a Bosmer woman. Since the back door opened directly to the bedroom – at which Laila threw him a teasing smirk – Marcus asked Iona to bring refreshments out to the porch where they would converse. Lanterns lit the area with a soft yellow glow, and the light of the two moons reflected off the dancing ripples of Lake Honrich beyond. It would have been a very romantic setting indeed, if their purpose hadn't been so serious.
"Jarl Laila has told me a little bit about your conversation yesterday," Wylandriah said. "But I'd like to know what proof you have." She didn't explain how she'd smuggled her Jarl out of Mistveil Keep unnoticed, and Marcus decided he'd really rather not know.
He took out the two journals and passed them over, waiting patiently while they read the relevant passages. Laila was fuming when she finished.
"That bitch!" she hissed. "Try to call the Dark Brotherhood down on me, will she? I'll have her clapped in irons!"
"That would be unwise, my Jarl," Wylandriah cautioned before Marcus could speak. "Maven has some very solid ties with the Empire, at the moment. Throwing her into prison, even with this evidence against her, would only give the Empire an opportunity to launch an investigation. Do you really want more of the Legion camping out in the Rift?"
"No," Laila simmered. "But I can't let this go unpunished!"
"She won't go unpunished," Marcus promised. "I'm taking her down, bit by bit. I don't want to kill her."
"I do," Laila sulked.
"You don't?" Wylandriah asked, surprised.
"No, I want to ruin her," he explained. "I want her to see her influence crumble around her. I want her to become a laughing-stock within the Empire, so that no one will ever take her as a serious threat ever again."
Wylandriah grinned, and even Laila perked up at that.
"I could enjoy that, too," she chirped.
"How do we do that?" Wylandriah asked. "You might have destroyed the Dark Brotherhood, but Maven mentions the Morag Tong." The Bosmer mage shuddered. "If you think the Brotherhood was bad, you've no idea just how deadly the Tong can be!"
Laila nodded, agreeing. "My life is still in danger," she pointed out. "And we may not have the time it takes to bring Maven down before she makes another attempt on me."
"The first thing we need to do is confirm how many of your personal palace guard hold their loyalty to Maven and not to you."
"I think I can help with that," Wylandriah volunteered. "There's an Illusion spell called 'Truth' that forces the victim to speak nothing but the truth while the spell is in effect. I can cast it on the guards and find out who's loyal to Jarl Laila and who's not."
"Won't that take some time?" Marcus frowned.
"Ordinarily, yes," Wylandriah shrugged. "The basic spell can only be cast upon one person at a time. Once I've discerned a dozen or so loyal guards, I can then use the more advanced version which will allow me to cast it on a mass of them at once. I'll simply ask them who they owe their loyalty to, and the ones on our side can pick out those who give the wrong answer."
"You might end up with a lot of wrong answers," Marcus felt obliged to point out.
"Then I'll ship them all to the front," Laila said sourly.
Marcus didn't like that at all. More Stormcloak soldiers on the front lines meant more warm bodies to boost Ulfric's cause; and more souls to be sent to Sovngarde.
"I have a better idea," Marcus said. "Leave that to me."
"Once we've sorted out the guards, then what?" Wylandriah asked.
"Then we confront Anuriel about her complicity in all this," Marcus said. He was looking forward to that particular encounter.
The reports were soon flying all over Skyrim about the attempted coup in Riften. According to some, Jarl Laila had all her guards executed when she discovered they were in the pay of Maven Black-Briar. Others said that the Dragonborn himself swept down and breathed fire on the entire court, and only the true sons and daughters of Skyrim escaped his wrath. The truth was somewhat less colorful.
Laila did indeed discover that nearly half her personal guard, as well as the city guard, were in the pay of Maven Black-Briar, and had them summarily arrested, tried, convicted of treason and sentenced to death. In a moment of compassion, however, she commuted their sentences to community service in the mines and mills all over the Rift. Not surprisingly, no one had given her credit enough to think of that on her own.
Seeing her hard work on behalf of the Thalmor going up in smoke, and having been outed as an agent of the Dominion, the Steward of Riften attempted to flee the court, and in the ensuing chaos – during which time there was an extremely heated magic battle between the Steward and the Court Mage – there were a few casualties, including the Steward, the Jarl's eldest son who ran for the door at the first sign of trouble and was cut down by the Housecarl, and the Housecarl himself, who was in turn killed by the new Thane of Riften. The Jarl's youngest son, who had been under house arrest, flew to his mother's defense and protected her from harm, though he was injured during the battle.
Grief-stricken, Jarl Laila mourned the loss of her elder son, ignoring her younger until her new Thane sternly pointed out to her which one had risen to her defense.
As for Maven Black-Briar, her credibility with the Empire took a nose-dive when a pair of journals – one in her handwriting – mysteriously showed up at Castle Dour in Solitude, addressed to General Tullius.
"Who sent these?" the Imperial commander demanded of the courier.
"I don't know," the young man shrugged. "He wouldn't say. Just that he was a friend of yours."
[Author's Note: Well that at least gets Maven out of the way. When I first discovered the Black Sacrament circle in Maven's basement I began to wonder if she was the source of the mysterious Dark Brotherhood attacks on my character as I went through the game. The notes on the assassins' bodies only tell us that "someone wants this poor fool dead." As I was writing this story, however, I realized I could work that circle into a more sinister purpose.
Up next, Marcus has to make a decision on whether to join the Legion or call for peace talks. But there's a down side to either choice. Thanks for reading!]