Author's Note: Thanks to all you readers out there and special thanks to my reviewers: BarnabusAmbrosiusIII and parkway. Feedback is both helpful and encouraging.

9: Time to Go

The little girl in the old-fashioned dress walked the workroom restlessly. She'd already cleaned the lab until the glassware gleamed. A finicky attention to detail was important in alchemical work, as Babette had learned through long experience. Gabriella had danced in last night with a new contract and she always insisted her toxins be freshly made. So Babette had worked through the night to prepare them. She no longer tried to convince her 'sister' that it made no difference—it was just one of Gabriella's quirks. We're all eccentric here, in this strange little family we've made, Babette thought.

She looked down into the spider pit. Lis had retreated into her web as if she knew her services would soon be required. Someone was going to have to milk the spider for poison and Babette had no illusions about who that was going to be. She sighed. The Sanctuary seemed so small lately. She made another turn around the room.

"Some of us are trying to work." Festus Krex gave her an irritated glance over the top of the ancient book he'd been pouring over for hours.

"What are you working on?" Babette asked.

"Never you mind what I'm working on. If you're so bored, go out, get some fresh air. Kill someone."

"The sun's still up."

"Is it? Too bad for you. Find something to do and stop bothering me."

"Can I help?" Babette asked.

"When did you become a master in Destruction magic?"

"You don't have to be snotty. I'm a Breton. Magic is in my blood."

"Amongst other things," Festus muttered. "I don't need help. All I need is a bit of peace and quiet." His eyes were red-rimmed and puffy with fatigue. He'd always been ill-tempered but when had he gotten so old? She remembered when he'd joined the family, a swaggering young mage self-exiled from the College of Winterhold. Had that been fifty years ago?

Where did the time go?

"What's this new contract Gabriella's out on?" she asked. "Anything juicy?"

"Something for Maven Black-Briar, is all I know."

"Oh. Her. Ugh. Another business killing."

Festus shot her a look through bushy eyebrows. "Business is what we do, girl. Were you expecting something splendid?" He gave her a caustic frown. "There is no splendor in this degraded age."

"One can always hope." A depressed silence fell over the workroom. Before Festus could get back to his book, Babette asked, "What are we going to do about this Aretino boy?"

Festus didn't even pretend to not know what she was talking about. "Nothing."

"Nothing? But people are saying he's performed the Black Sacrament. Even I've heard about it. And no one tells me anything," she grumbled.

"Astrid says he's a ten year old boy, mad at his ma or some such nonsense. She says he needs a spanking, not an assassin. I'm sure someone will give him one sooner or later."

"We can't just do nothing. It makes us look bad."

Festus shrugged. "He's a kid and he doesn't have any coin. If Astrid says there's no contract, there's no contract."

"We should ignore him because he doesn't have any coin? Are we merely paid assassins now?"

"You think we should ride all the way out to Windhelm for some spoiled brat? For free?"

"Just because he's a child, that doesn't mean the Night Mother doesn't hear him," Babette said. "He's done the Black Sacrament! That's no trivial task."

"Not saying I disagree. I'm just telling you what Astrid said."

Babette gave him a troubled look. "But if he's truly done the sacrament and we turn our back on him—Festus, there are consequences. You know that. We can't abandon our very purpose for being. We've lost so much. Do we dare anger the Night Mother?"

"We have no Listener, haven't for years. Who's to say the Night Mother hasn't abandoned us first?"

"You sound like Astrid." Babette pinched the bridge of her nose, an expression that didn't quite fit the child she appeared to be. "Well, what else do we have going on? I looked through the contracts last night. We're being asked to clear squatters off someone's land? Where's the glory in that? How does that serve Sithis?"

Festus shrugged. "A soul's a soul. Glory doesn't pay the bills."

"No. That's not right. Sithis doesn't bargain like some—some shopkeeper." Babette shook her head. "We've gotten so small. So petty. Nothing against Astrid, you know I love her, but really. Can't we do any better than this?" She sighed. "It used to be fun around here. Not just dull, dreary business."

"So you want to go play with the little Aretino boy?"

"I want to do something. I'm tired of being holed up in this boring cave."

"Sanctuary."

"This boring Sanctuary, then. We don't take risks like we used to."

"Now you sound like Arnbjorn."

"Now you're getting nasty." She glared at Festus. Not that any of this was his fault. "I mean it though. I'm going to Windhelm."

"Astrid won't like it."

Babette fumed. She almost stomped her tiny foot before she realized how foolish she would look. Have I made a mistake, she wondered. Have I played the child for so long that no one can see what I truly am? "Astrid is our leader but she doesn't own me. She doesn't even treat me like a sister. She treats me like a daughter. Like a child!"

"She just wants to protect you. She worries about your condition, you know."

"Protect me. Ha! I've been sending souls to Sithis since before she was born. Since before her grandmother was born."

"You've been an assassin since the Third Era, yes, yes, we've all heard the stories." Festus laughed. "Oh, Babette, you should see your face. Seriously though. Be careful."

"Be careful. Ha. I've survived things that would give you nightmares." She took another turn around the room, feeling her energy rise with every step. "It's been decades since I was last in Windhelm. A grim, cold place but there was this wonderful alchemical shop—I wonder if the owner is still alive. I really need to replenish my supplies, you know. Ha. He'd be older than you by now."

"Then he's probably dead."

"Not necessarily! Is that any way to talk?"

"We don't all have your dubious advantages."

"You could. Although the change is risky at your age."

"No, thank you." Festus stretched his neck and winced. "But ask me in ten years and I may have a different answer. Who's going to watch your back?"

"I have someone in mind."

"Who?"

"One of my brothers," she said airily. "He needs a nice outing too. He could use the exercise."

Festus's brows lowered. "Who? Oh, no. If you're thinking what I'm thinking—that's Astrid's horse, Babette."

"She might say so. She might even think so. But she's wrong. He's our brother. He's been a part of our family even longer than I have. If he belongs to anyone, he belongs to Sithis."

"So what right do you have to take him?"

"I have no right at all," Babette said. "I'm not going to take him. I'm just going to ask him. He can decide for himself."

xxx

Wrapped in her travel cloak, Babette stood by the dark gloomy pool outside the Sanctuary. "The moons will soon be full and bright, my brother," she whispered. "It's a beautiful night for a ride."

Her heightened senses heard nothing. Nothing but the breeze in the trees. Nothing but the nocturnal insects busy with their short, tiny lives. The larger predators—the hunting birds, the foxes, and the wolves–hid in frozen silence at the presence of a yet larger predator.

"I've brought you a carrot, my friend. A nice, blood-soaked carrot."

For a long moment, nothing but the night insects and a gentle sigh of wind through the trees disturbed the evening's silence. Then the water rippled. Babette gave a small close-lipped smile.

"One of the guards reported seeing a flying spider on the walls last night," Saerlund said. He'd retreated to her workroom after a dinner full of jeers and barbs. His brother, as usual, was as subtle as a war hammer and the servants listened to every insult with gloating relish. This was the only place in the palace where he wouldn't be mocked.

"Flying?" Wylandriah asked. "Surely not."

"That's what he said." The mage looked guilty. But not guilty enough. "You promised they would stay in the cave."

"The young ones do like a nice romp outside. They need the exercise, after all."

"The captain docked the guard's pay and sent him to the barracks for being drunk on duty."

"Oh, dear," Wylandriah said.

"He said he hadn't been drinking but was about to start." Saerlund felt like drinking himself. Wylandriah still didn't seem to understand the potential seriousness of the situation. He was beginning to wonder if she ever would. "They don't really fly, do they?"

"Oh, no, of course not. Spiders can't fly."

Saerlund raised an eyebrow at her. "Apparently the guard absolutely insisted it flew."

"They don't have wings," she said.

"I'm aware that spiders don't have wings."

"But what if we gave them wings? Wouldn't that be interesting? Of course, I could see there would be several difficulties—"

"Wylandriah." Keeping that woman on track was like herding cats in a rainstorm. "Why did the guard insist he saw a flying spider?"

"Was he drunk?"

"No!"

"They do jump really high and fast. Possibly the harmonics make it look like they hover. Just a little. I'm trying to teach them to web faster. Maybe they could catch villains in their webs!"

"That would be something to see," Saerlund said. "You can teach them things? You can talk to them?"

"Of course. I'm Bosmer, you know. I've always had a gift with animals. I'm particularly good with arachnids. When I was a child, I had this striped grey wolf spider that could do the most astonishing tricks. Her name was—"

"Divines' sake, teach those spiders to stay out of sight. And no flying!"

"But—"

"Seriously, Wylandriah, you're going to have to be more careful. You need to keep these spiders under control before something happens."

"I'll set extra wards. I wouldn't want anyone to hurt my poor babies."

"No, we can't have that. I can't believe my mother ever agreed to this project, to be frank. You know she's terrified of spiders. Even house spiders."

"I didn't really get into the details. Most people fade out when I start talking details. Besides, I must protect my research, you know. I don't think anyone else has tried feeding spiders soul gems or hatching their eggs in a zone of applied harmonics."

"Um, right," Saerlund said. "Applied harmonics. I won't tell a soul. But I'm more worried about you keeping your job. Maven was serious about firing you, you know. And. Well. I'm used to having you around, you know."

"How sweet," Wylandriah said but clearly her attention was elsewhere. "Has the courier brought my Dwemer stirring spoon? I need it right away."

Grelka met Balimund for lunch at the smithy. She plopped into a chair and stretched her weary legs. She'd been all over Riften without even the hint of a glimpse of her quarry.

"I swear people are giving me the runaround," she complained. "Everyone I ask, they say they don't know this Mallory fellow. But some of them give me funny looks. Like they know something but won't say."

"That is strange," Balimund said.

"I'm beginning to think your guess was right. That maybe this is tangled up with the Thieves Guild." She sighed. "I don't know, maybe that makes sense. Maybe Mallory stole the secret from the Dunmer. Maybe he doesn't want people to find him. I'm afraid I've just been wasting my time."

"I hope your trip to Riften hasn't been a complete waste. I'm glad you came."

Grelka gave him a look through her lashes. Is he flirting with me, she wondered. Oh, Mara, I hope he isn't flirting with me. I am so not ready for anything like that. She sighed. "I guess I should head home. Looks like I'm not going to find this Mallory fellow. It was just a crazy idea anyway. I need to stick to steel like Eorlund keeps telling me."

"Listen, I've got an idea. I get most of my ore from the Redbelly Mine, up in Shor's Stone. Just a short ways north of here. There's a smith up there, Filnjar. You know him?"

"No. This is my first trip to the Rift. Eorlund gets his iron from Riverwood."

"Filnjar wrote me a letter saying they've turned up something strange in a new seam. He wants our alchemist to take a look at some samples. They've taken nothing but iron out of that mine for years and now there's something new. Maybe you'd like to ride up with me and take a look? I wanted to pick up a load of steel anyway."

"Eorlund gets his delivered."

"I used to but the bandits are so bad these days. Half my shipments get stolen if I'm not there to protect them."

"In Whiterun you can hire off-duty guards for things like that. The jarl doesn't mind. In fact he encourages it."

"In Riften, the off-duty guards are the bandits."

"That's not good." She thought. Was there any reason she needed to be back in Whiterun? Depressingly, she couldn't think of one. "Sure," she said. "I've never actually been in an iron mine. Sounds interesting. When?"

"Is tomorrow too soon?"

xxx

Grelka packed her bags that afternoon. She'd studied the map and decided there was no need to return to Riften from Shor's Stone. It would be quicker and maybe safer to travel north up to the Eastmarch border and then follow the main road west back to Whiterun. Riften was noisy, smelly and full of thieves. Although she had met some nice people she'd also seen a whole bunch she'd just as soon not get to know. So many Dunmer, so many Argonians—they made her feel very uncomfortable. Time to get back home. Back to her place. Back to work.

It didn't take long to pack her few things and then the evening stretched out before her. Balimund had offered to meet her for a drink. That didn't sound like such a great idea. She already wondered if agreeing to go to Shor's Stone so easily hadn't given him the wrong idea. It wasn't that she didn't like him, she liked him quite well. But her heart was taken and it would stay taken until this stupid war was over, one way or another.

Mara, keep him safe, she whispered.

"I love what you've done with the place," Ancano said. "Every embassy needs a torture room or two." He carefully kept his revulsion off his face. Life had certain unpleasant realities but was it truly necessary to relish them?

Elenwen smirked. "This used to be a storage area but it's so nicely soundproof."

Ancano waved his hand before a chained Nord's staring eyes. Eye. Ugh. "This one is dead, I hate to tell you."

"Yes, I know. I leave him here as an incentive for my other guests."

"Guests." He snorted. "Disposal of bodies must be a chore."

"Not at all. There's an old smuggler cave right beneath us. We merely shove the bodies through the trap door."

"Don't they, er, accumulate?"

"Not since the troll moved in." Ancano swallowed. "It comes running like a puppy whenever it hears the bolts slide back," she said. "Want to see?"

"No. Thank you." Truly, an imagination was a bit of a curse in this role. He wondered if he would be able to eat lunch. A salad, perhaps. No tomatoes.

"But enough pleasantries," the ambassador said. "Tell me about Helgen. How did Tullius escape the dragon?"

"One of his guards was a local man. I suppose he knew a back way out of the keep."

"A pity. I'm more than a little tired of Tullius and his pompous suspiciousness. Alas, there's no guarantee that any replacement sent by the Imperial City would be an improvement, should Tullius's luck finally run out." She gave him one of her enigmatic looks. "And Ulfric escaped as well. Tell me of this mercenary of yours who aided him."

"I've learned nothing new. I'm told his name was Ysgramor but—"

"Ysgramor!"

"What, do you know him?"

"You ignorant fool, do you know nothing of Skyrim? Do they send agents here without the slightest briefing at all? You don't have a clue who Ysgramor was?"

Ancano stiffened at her rebuke. "Who was he?"

"Ysgramor was the Atmoran king who drove the snow elves out of Skyrim back in the Merethic Era. He built the city of Windhelm and the Palace of Kings, where Ulfric rules even now. And that's the name this man gave you?"

"Many of these mercenaries give false names, surely."

"No Nord wishing to be anonymous would call himself Ysgramor. I wonder. Was this a joke or a statement?" She slowly cracked her knuckles, one by one. This was an old habit of hers and one that Ancano found particularly repulsive. "Now I have to wonder if he wasn't one of Ulfric's men all along," she said. "Or worse, one of Tullius's spies. He's seen your face!"

"And I've seen his."

"He's a loose end, Ancano. Tie him up."

"I'll find him."

"Have your informants found any details on what happened to our justiciars at Riverwood?"

"The farmhouse burned down while they were sleeping. The locals say the dragon did it."

"Were any other farms burned?"

"Er, I haven't heard."

"I don't like this. Too many coincidences. Our people killed, and Ulfric escapes and all of this due to a dragon. To a dragon that shouldn't exist in the first place. Where did it come from? What does it want? And where is it now?" Ancano had no answers but it was clear she didn't expect any. "I'm going to search the archives. We must know something about dragons. And you. Clean up this mess. If your mercenary connects you to the Thalmor—"

"If he survived Helgen, I'll find him. Why did Tullius start the executions early in the first place?" Ancano asked with faked concern. He was fully aware of the answer, of course. Tullius had hoodwinked her, probably while she'd been distracted by one of her foul little hobbies. "One might almost say the dragon's arrival was fortuitous, since Ulfric would otherwise be missing a head by now."

Elenwen glared at him. She'd better think twice before she tried to make him a scapegoat, he thought. He may have lost one piddling mercenary but she nearly lost the whole province. The responsibility to keep the Imperial general under control was hers. The responsibility to keep Skyrim embroiled in safely unproductive chaos was hers. If she failed, the Aldmeri Dominion might find itself back at war before it was ready. And if that happened, she'd no doubt be on the front lines with him this time.