The first three targets Nazir had provided had proven no trouble. The beggar and the miner had both died in their sleep, and the last–an Imperial mill worker–had died while telling her a story about the last great war. He went on and on, turning a rabbit over his fire pit until it was nearly dry, claiming he used to be a soldier who bedded a different woman a night, until Athene finally leaned over and slid her blade up through his jaw and into his brain. That ended story-time.
When she'd returned to the sanctuary Cicero had finally arrived, and she enjoyed the discomfort that seemed to cause Astrid. The leader had barely looked away from the jester and the Night Mother's coffin to provide Athene with her next job. After an exhausting coach ride to Markarth, a conversation with an alchemist, and a somewhat interesting tour through a Dwemer ruin to assassinate an ex-boyfriend, Athene had taken a chance and hiked down to Windhelm to try for the bonus the alchemist had promised: she wanted her old friend killed, too. One of the Shatter-Shields, who used to be like a sister to her. It was just the best kind of revenge.
But as she gazed at the city that long held the seat of the High King of Skyrim, Athene was afraid.
They didn't want her there. Not just in the city, but in all of Skyrim. Most Nords she met barely spoke to her, and here in their traditional capital it would be worse than ever. She could tell, not just from the sneers of the guards, but from the cluster of Argonians on the docks and the evidence of a slum just over the Eastern city walls. Here was a city that was splitting itself apart. Did Athene want to chance that, even for her bonus?
She took the long route via the bridge over the river and made her way to the docks along the side of the city wall. Listening to conversations between guards and Argonians, between sailors and their captains, she knew she'd been right. Windhelm would not welcome her.
But she had a job to do.
Tomorrow. Night was falling.
A Breton saw her eyeing the fire he'd built just off the docks.
"Welcome," he called. "New in town?"
She stared at him.
"I'm Dalan Merchad, a sailor on The North Wind. You're welcome to my fire."
"Is this some kind of trick?" she said.
"Not unless you think a little warmth and companionship is a trick," he said. "The others have all gone to Candlehearth Hall for the night, but I suspect you wouldn't fit in."
Unsure if he'd expect more than she wanted to give, Athene made sure her dagger was visible as she sidled up to the fire. It was a relief after the chill of her hike and the cold seeping up through the frozen stone into her bones. She just about moaned as she held her hands over the heat.
"I suspect I wouldn't either," she finally said. She gestured at the Argonians who were filing into a building. "Same as them."
"They have their Assemblage and what work the Nords throw them."
"Sounds like a dream come true."
"I'm sure it isn't. Ho, here comes my friend."
Athene looked up from the fire, and with a heavy heart saw a Nord approach. She'd been hoping for a few moments more of warmth.
"No need to go," Dalan said, reading her face. "He's a true friend, and a true Nord in the best kind of way. Hello Brunwulf."
Athene looked at the newcomer's scaled mail and the scars that ran down his arms. "Some kind of a soldier, are you?"
He shook his head. "Not anymore. There's no glory in war, my girl. It's just something they tell soldiers so they'll risk their lives."
"An interesting perspective."
She wasn't trying to mock him, but she saw him wince. "Aye," he said. "Don't let the others bother you. Most of us are happy to welcome newcomers. Isn't that right, Dalan?"
The Breton nodded, and retrieved three bottles of mead from his backpack.
Athene took one and marvelled at what she'd found just outside the wall of the worst city she'd visited. Tomorrow there was murder, but for tonight she was allowed to be surprised.