Chapter 15: Burden of Proof
The endless frigid drizzle had just turned into a downright nasty icy downpour by the time Castorius got to shelter on the patio of the Windpeak Inn at Dawnstar.
He stomped the mud stuck on the bottoms of his boots onto the boards, and tried to dry his hair as well as he could with his hands, before realizing the futility of trying to look decent in conditions such as these. It was somewhat absurd to think that in just a month or so the land here would be covered in snow, and the air would be as cold as a Frost Giant's arse.
He took one more disdaining look back at the sludge-sodden cobblestones before pushing though the door—wishing he could just step out of the entire province, never to return.
Upon stepping inside, the inviting smell of food and the less inviting odor of fresh and not-so-fresh liquor hit him in the face, accented by the heat of the large fire pit roaring at the middle of the hall. The place was packed full, as if the people had been driven there to seek refuge from the bad weather. Though of course they could have simply stayed home, too.
The weather, as it went, was as good an excuse for getting tanked as another.
Castorius scoped out the clientele populating the tables by the sidelines. Mostly the usual raggedy plebs out for a few hours of respite from their trudging existence of meaningless toil. How blurring out your faculties at the cost of reality just coming back to smack you over the head a few hours later was supposed to help, that much he had never been able to decipher.
Suppose it was simply another manifestation of their general sorry, deluded state—part of the grand conditioning by which they were kept in servitude to their masters. Some people could not be helped.
Most of them, in fact.
As irony had it, as much as he disagreed with the general purpose of these places—in addition to the nominal function as places to spend your night—Castorius had to admit to quite enjoying their general atmosphere. At least if one managed to ignore the people. But disregarding them, the warmth and the hum of the fire-pit, the tufts of smoke twirling lazily, and the timber interior darkened by decades worth of soot, they always made him feel welcome. It felt almost like returning home, especially when coming in from some nasty weather like this. And around here that was pretty much always the case.
The Bard was in the process of tuning her lute by the bar counter at the front of the hall, and the sight of her tugged at the corners of Castorius' lips. Though the days of her youth were now behind her, she was still a delightful sight with her lusciously plump breasts that she did not exactly attempt to hide—what with that generous neckline of her tavern girl's gown and all.
In fact, the neckline was so low that every time she bent forwards you could practically hear everyone in the room hold their breath. Maybe this would be the time something slipped out. But that never seemed to happen. She most likely did it on purpose, in hopes of some extra tips. No doubt it worked, too.
Unfortunately Castorius had not had a "intimate performance" from her. As of yet, anyway; and not due to lack of trying. But the way it was with these things, one simply had to be patient. Keep the goal inside, keep working at it. Diligence and fortitude, those were the keys to success, always and ever. That said, he didn't exactly visit these parts often enough to keep a solid effort going. Not that he could be blamed for it.
The woman finished her tuning, strummed a couple chords, and started to sing. Her voice was a less than impeccable match for the rest of her, but then who was perfect? What was her name again? Katria? Something like that, anyway.
Castorius' mood dampened as he remembered that there were more pressing issues in his agenda. With reluctance, he tore his eyes from the the bard's chest—jiggling pleasingly at each stroke of the lute—and searched the tables for the considerably less aesthetic people he'd originally come here to see.
And, sure enough: there at the table in the farthest shady corner slumped a pair of quite indelicate ruffian figures. One was dressed in a ratty belted tunic, whereas the other was as shirtless as the crew on Brinehammer had been. Both had arms riddled with sinew, and the muscles of their thick necks flexed nearly in unison as they chewed their food in silence. Their backs were turned towards the hall.
Castorius let out a determined exhale, and walked up behind the dining maybe-not-quite-gentlemen. He rehashed his snake-charmer's smile, cleared his throat.
"Excuse me, brothers," he started. "Hate to interrupt your nice dinner." As far as he could see, they were chewing on some skeever meat and slaughterfish eggs. He wasn't sure whether the latter was technically even edible.
The man on the left, Alding, turned his head enough to give Castorius an unenthusiastic glance. His ruddy face adorned with a horker-like mustache had an expression stuck on it as if it'd just been hit hard with a shovel. A spiky crest of hair stuck up in the middle of his otherwise bald head. He grunted, and went back to his meal.
The other man did not even bother to look.
Alright, then. This was at least the kind of behavior Castorius was used to. "As chatty as ever, I see," he said. "Listen, I've got some—"
"We ain't talkin' to you, Castorius," growled the one on the right, Gjuk. He took only the briefest of pauses from masticating to convey this message. With each bite, the scalp under his closely cropped yellow hair shifted, and his thick, similarly hued mutton-chops bobbed up and down.
Alding next to him didn't bother to add anything, simply slurped from his tankard, way louder than was necessary.
Well, that was new. "What's this, now?" Castorius was careful not to let the trepidation in his mind leak into his voice. "Did I perhaps do something to hurt you fellows' feelings? 'Cause if that's it, I can assure you—"
"Always with the jokes, huh?" growled Alding. He turned around enough to give Castorius a hard, bloodshot glare. The ale foam on his mustache made it somewhat hard to take him too seriously. He jabbed a meaty finger at Castorius' chest. "Well, how's this for laughs: you're a dead man!" He sniffed contemptuously, shook his head, and turned away.
This wasn't going at all as planned. Castorius had not expected this sort of hostility, which was probably somewhat ironic seeing that he was dealing with professional robbers and killers here. He was not about to back down, however.
He gave a chuckle, hollow and metallic in his ears. "Whoa! So bad, huh? Sure I can't just make it up with a good back rub?"
Alding simply shook his head quietly while staring straight ahead, but Gjuk by his side turned around slowly. "You really don't appreciate the gravity of the situation, do you?" He had a low, raspy voice, a bit like that of an elderly dog, hoarse from a lifetime of barking at shadows.
"What situation? I haven't even been around here in good while. How should I have any damned idea of what you're going on about?"
Gjuk studied him for a minute, eyes a touch narrowed, like he was looking for the hidden wisecrack in Castorius' words. There was none to be found, for he genuinely had no idea of why they were presenting him with such a cold shoulder.
Alding took the tankard to his lips, and between slurping said, "We know all about you and High King Torygg. Everyone here does."
Castorius' heart took a little lurch at that. But how could it be? Ulfric himself hadn't found out not more than a day past, how could the word already have washed out to the scum on the shores? Via Skald?
But no. Torygg may have suspected Castorius' intentions, or even had decided about the true state of affairs, but he was too shrewd to be running his mouth about it. And Skald the Bellyacher himself was as good as clueless. This was obviously something else. An ugly rumor he had to cut the wings of before it was too late—if indeed it wasn't already.
He kept his voice level, even nonchalant after a measure. "Nothing gone on between us, I swear," he said, lifting his right hand, palm forwards. "He's way too serious for my taste, anyway."
Gjuk was still staring at Castorius, a calculating look in his eyes of modest intelligence. There was something else, too. Perhaps even a soft touch of melancholy. "Your jibes are not going to help you when someone else with a less soft heart than me and Alding here comes at you for being a snitch."
A snitch? Now Castorius felt a wave of something other than alarm. Wounded pride, perhaps.
"Now, wait just one minute," he said. "I may be a lot of things, but—" he narrowed his eyes. "Wait, who are you referring to?"
Gjuk opened his mouth, but then his eyes were directed behind Castorius, and his face sagged. He shied away, turned back to join his sulking friend.
"Who, you ask?" said a voice behind him. There was a chuckle. "Why, it'd be a whole lot easier asking who wouldn't."
Castorius knew this one, of course. Before he turned, he made sure his simper for disarming hostile serpents was still functional, boosted it up a bit to account for extra venom.
Behind him stood a man you could have introduced to your mother. That is, if you hated the bitch and hoped to give her a heart attack. Captain Stig Salt-Plank had likely started his slog through this life only moderately ugly, but a lifetime of piracy had not done his appearance any favors. His hardy, hawk-nosed features—a natural mugger's face, Castorius thought—had acquired an impressive collection of scars and dents from undoubtedly countless scuffles, and his left eye sat silvery and sightless atop a long scar so uneven it seemed likely the man had stitched up the wound himself—while drunk. He was most decidedly not smiling, though the quirk at the corners of his lips might have been enough to convince a layman otherwise.
Castorius fanned out his arms and opened his eyes wide, as he'd just been assigned with the task of describing "innocent" without any use of words.
"What is this?" he said. "Your underlings here just all but called me a snitch to my face. I didn't realize you Blood Horkers have such bad manners!" He shook his head ruefully "What happened? I don't come around for a few months and everybody goes back to acting like a bunch of barbarians. Thought I'd at least managed to rub off some Cyrodiilian courtesy on you people."
Not a drop of amusement seeped through Salt-Plank's wooden mask of a visage. His good eye had a tired look about it.
He gave the faintest of shrugs. "We've certainly missed your cultured presence here," he intoned. A spark of malice animated him a bit. "But at least the gap has been filled by some very interesting rumors about you."
"Rumors!" Castorius spat. "Since when have you people been going by rumors!"
Salt-Plank shrugged again. "You go by what you can get," he said, and smiled a sarcastic and humorless smile. "Here to set things straight, I take it?"
"I don't need to!" replied Castorius. "By definition, the burden of proof is on the side of those making the claims."
Salt-Plank cocked his head. "I truly hope you don't yourself believe that nonsense. See, the people I know? They believe you a snitch—well, then that's exactly what you are. There really are no two ways about it, friend."
And who was they?
Castorius thought, however, that Salt-Plank himself did not seem overly concerned.
He's toying with me! he realized. Well, two can play at this!
So, instead of doing anything to suppress his latent sense of alarm, he let it bubble up, just tweaked it a bit so he could use it, to appear weak. He might have only been good at a very few selected things, but lying just happened to be one of them. And—once again—as usual, the lie was all the better the more truth there was in it. Forcing reality was one thing, but bending it just a bit, that was the way to get it to work for your benefit.
The despair—albeit spurious—leaking into Castorius' appearance was not missed by Salt-Plank. His expression took on a good deal of sardonic amusement verging on sadism—a look so typical for a man of his ilk.
For Castorius, seeing it felt like a small triumph already. He feigned a distressed blow of air through puffed cheeks, a motion that felt just a little too genuine for comfort.
"So," Salt-plank said slowly, like he was enjoying himself, "what do you have to say for yourself?"
Castorius spread his arms again. "What am I even accused of?"
"You really don't know?"
"I have no idea!" Castorius replied. He both did, and did not. That mattered less, however. "Honestly!"
The Captain grunted. "Hm, yes well. Let's say for the say of argument you're speaking the truth."
He looked around, as if to check if anybody was listening. But everyone seemed to be way too busy staring either into their flagons, or at the jiggling bosom of the tune-challenged, pretty bardette.
"What they're saying," he said in a lowered voice, "is that you were the Empire's informant from the start." He bared his teeth, and seemed forget all about digression. "Hah! Just imagine that: people thinking the man they took for a crooked imperial soldier was actually straight all along, and thus, in their logic, crooked. I'm sure there's some strong irony right there."
"Yes, surely," Castorius muttered.
So that was all. Probably he shouldn't have been surprised it all boiled down to something as simple as that.
He struggled the urge to roll his eyes. What over-dramatic simpletons, the criminals of this province!
After all, what had he done with them so far? Traded some minor imperial artifacts he had gotten so easily it was nearly insulting to all thieves to have called it stealing. Shared with them some imperial "secrets"—hideaways of minor assets, weapons-shipments and whatnot. Hardly classified stuff, and even more hardly anything the empire or the High King would care about, much less wasted an entire soldier to act as an "informant".
That was exactly why he had been able to arrange the information with such ease. It was all but common knowledge, and the worst thing that they would expect to happen was some isolated robbery or two. Those wouldn't likely bring down the Empire, or even cause a noticeable dent. In fact, minor thefts and the like were included in the calculations. Stuff always went missing, it was no big deal.
Actually it was good, as it meant more trade for the imperial weapon-traders. Crime was as good for business as any war, and, in his mind, Castorius saw his own actions as an integral part of the grand machine. Not that he liked it, but it had served him well.
Not well enough, was the only problem. But perhaps that was about to change.
But this silliness was not what he needed right now. He'd come here because a nagging doubt kept him from feeling entirely good about what he was about to get into. Not to partake in this sort of ridiculous mummery.
All distress leaked out of him, and he gave Salt-Plank a weary look, nearly forgetting that this was a man in charge of a fleet of more or less callous and violent criminals, with his hands about as red as any man sailing the Sea of Ghosts.
"Really, now?" he said. "And I took you for a smart man."
The Captain's right eyebrow cocked just a slightest bit.
Castorius ran hands down the length of his body, gesturing at his clothes. "Now, tell me: what am I wearing? Hmm?"
Salt-Plank looked Castorius up and down, like he only now took notice. Probably he had already, though.
"Well?" Castorius asked. "This outfit look at all familiar to you? Here, let me give you a hint."
He cupped his hands over his mouth, started to make a blowing-whistling sound, complete with sounds of thunder. Then he pretended to grab something at his back, pulled it in front his face, and hunched a bit, like a parody of man shrouding himself in a cloak.
Concluding the pantomime, he raised his brows at the Captain, now staring at him with something less like amusement. "Well . . . ?"
Captain Salt-Plank made no reply. There was an unmistakable chill about him.
Castorius cleared his throat. "Yes, well, I'm sure you see I'm dressed up as a Stormcloak. Does that not say something? Or the simple fact that I even came to these parts? Would an imperial informant do that?"
"He might," replied the Captain after a pause. His voice was frosty steel. "You could be a spy."
Castorius had feared he would say that. He brushed it aside. "Nonsense. I've simply come to see the light."
Salt-Plank snorted.
Enough of this! "I'm working for Ulfric," Castorius said. "You can ask the man himself if you like. Because it's the truth. And he's sent me on an errand that has to do with your kind."
"My kind?"
"The Blood Horkers."
The Captain slanted his eyes. He no longer seemed interested in pretending to care one way or another about Castorius' possible transgressions. "Well, you have my ear now."
Of course I do, you fool. "I'm glad. Look, I came here to look for advice."
"Who you working for?"
"That's exactly it." Castorius held a pause. "A certain Malaney. You know him?"
Something flashed in Salt-Plank's eye; something in the vein of dread.
Behind him, Castorius heard Gjuk and Alding stir. "Malaney?" one of them whispered.
"Something wrong?" asked Castorius.
Captain Salt-Plank pursed his lips, evidently disguising his true feelings. "Wrong? No. Just . . . interesting, shall we say?"
Castorius frowned. "Why?"
"No particular reason," replied Salt-Plank. "Just an interesting choice of companion, that is all. He's a relatively new one, so I can't really say much about him."
"That a bad thing?"
The Captain shrugged. "Could be. Might not. But I will tell you this: that Captain Malaney is a strange sort of fellow."
"I could tell that much myself!" Castorius said. "What I need to know is can he be trusted?"
"Trusted!" laughed Salt-Plank. "You do realize you're talking about—"
"Yes, yes," Castorius interrupted. "I'm familiar with that line of reasoning. I just . . . I don't know, had a sort of bad feeling about the guy. That's all."
"As opposed to the soft, cuddly feeling you get from me?"
Castorius shook his head. "So there's nothing you can give me, then?"
"I'm afraid so," Salt-Plank replied. "I'm sorry." He did not appear the least bit sorry. "Where is this job, by the way?"
Castorius hardly paused to think whether or not he should say it. "Solitude."
Captain Salt-Plank nodded slowly. "So I suppose you'll be dealing with the Blackbloods."
"Blackbloods?"
"They're a semi-independent cohort of the Blood Horkers, mostly in charge of that area. I'm actually kind of surprised you've never heard of them. But you can trust them, at least." He smiled—if such a revolting sneer really earned such an innocent moniker. "Well, at least you can trust them to be everything a pirate stands for."
"Guess that's something," Castorius muttered.
Salt-Plank got serious, took a step towards him. The usual whiff of liquor, sweat, and seawater went with him. "There's one thing I can say, though. Captain Malaney?"
Castorius held his breath; not because of the excitement, but for the stench. "Yes."
"You know when you look someone in the eye?" Salt-Plank's voice was a gravelly whisper. "And you can really see them there? The person they truly are. It's in their eyes, you know—most can't hide it."
"I take your word for it." The person behind Salt-Plank's intensively staring eye was not anyone he would have wanted to get too familiar with.
"But that man." Salt-Plank shook his head. "Nothing. You look at his eyes, it's like there's no one there. Just . . . emptiness. It's real eerie when you think of it."
Salt-Plank held Castorius' eye for what felt like a good minute. Castorius once again did not know what to say.
"Well," Salt-Plank said then—almost jovially—and tapped Castorius' shoulder. "Good luck with that!" He gestured at his minions, who immediately sprang up. "It was nice chatting, but we have to be going now."
Before he could leave, however, Castorius grabbed the Captain by the arm. "What, that's it?"
Salt-Plank frowned, stared at Castorius' hand. "What's what? What more do you want?"
Castorius let go. "Well, first you're like: 'Castorius, you snitch, you're a dead man'" he made his voice a gruff parody of pirate speech. "And then you're like: 'glad to have you back, friend. Good luck with the empty-eyed mad-man!'" imitating an overjoyed simpleton.
Salt-Planked pointed his finger at him. "I never called you a friend," he said.
Actually, he had, but Castorius thought better of mentioning it.
"Business is business," the Captain went on. "And you said we had you wrong, didn't you?"
"Well, yes, but—"
Salt-Plank shrugged. "Alright then—why would you lie? No, as far as I'm concerned, we're done." He smiled, and inclined his head a touch. "So, a good day to you sir. And best of luck!"
He gave a harsh laugh, turned around, and went for the door.
Before exiting into the pouring rain after his cronies, he looked back one more time, grinned at Castorius, and muttered, "Captain Malaney, huh?" He then shook his head softly, and was out the door.
Leaving behind bemused Castorius—none the wiser than he'd been before coming here. Or, perhaps with just a little bit more insight into the minds of the people he was forced to work with.
He sighed in frustration.
Was it just him or was everyone around him lately a complete madman?