28 Last Seed, 4E 201, Falkreath
Jarl Siddgeir was not impressive.
Oh, he looked tall and handsome enough, and his arms and frame showed some sign of exercise, but the more Ivar watched him, the more obvious it became that something rotten lurked within. He slouched on the jarl's seat, not a posture of watchful ease, but one of laziness and indulgence. A glass of fine drink never wandered far from his right hand, and the front of his tunic showed wine-stains. A half-eaten leg of chicken sat on a platter close by, slowly congealing in its own grease. The jarl's latest girl sat curled up at his feet, ignoring him as he idly toyed with her hair, a vacant expression on her face.
"We live well here in Falkreath," said the jarl, his full lips wrapping themselves sensually around each word. "Men say the holding has gone into decay. Nonsense! There's enough gold in this land to keep us in fine wine, the best of food, silks and spices, girls to warm our beds and bards to sing our glory, all for years to come. One only need know how and where to squeeze."
Movement, in the shadows behind the jarl's seat. Ivar's eyes flickered in that direction. Saw the tall figure of the jarl's steward standing there, an expression of grim distaste on her face.
"I came at your invitation, my lord," said Ivar neutrally.
"Yes. Quite." Siddgeir tapped at the girl's shoulder with his fingers. Without complaint, without much reaction at all, she rose and climbed into his lap where he could reach her with both hands. "Men say you are Dragonborn. Is this true?"
"I've helped to slay three dragons now. Each time, something of the dragon came to me. I seem to be able to Shout, without having spent years atop the Throat of the World to learn." Ivar shrugged. "If I'm Dragonborn, I have no idea how or why."
"No need to question your good fortune. Revel in it, I say! Make use of it to win fame and wealth. I can help you in this. No sense permitting that grim bastard Balgruuf to lay sole claim to your service."
"You offered me a thane's portion."
"So I did." Siddgeir tore his attention away from the girl's white skin for a moment. "The old holding of Morgate, long abandoned. The seat is at a place called Lakeview. Quite beautiful, I am told, although there's nothing there at present but the burned-out shell of an old manor house. You will have the opportunity to rebuild it as you like."
"What must I do to earn this boon, my lord?"
"Direct. To the point. Very good." The jarl smiled. "There are two nests of bandits in the hills west of here. One of them is at Knifepoint Ridge, the other has moved recently and I have no intelligence as to where. You will find them and destroy them."
"I've killed bandits before, my lord."
"I know you have. Be very sure . . . I want no survivors. None at all."
Ivar frowned. "No prisoners for trial?"
"A waste of time." The jarl turned his attention back to the girl, burying his face in the angle of her neck and shoulder.
"As you wish, my lord."
One beringed hand emerged from the girl's blouse, made a gesture of dismissal.
Ivar bowed and backed away.
Standing on the porch of the longhouse, Ivar took a deep breath: crisp fall air, rendered only slightly bitter by the scent of smoke and dragon-fire. He felt cleaner than he had a moment before.
The door opened and closed behind him. "Dragonborn."
The jarl's steward, seen for the first time in the open light of day. Tall, yes, and well formed. Elegant face, tilted golden eyes, blonde hair in a widow's peak, bone structure sharp enough to cut glass. Rather exquisite, really.
Of course she's Altmer, and probably ten times my age, and most likely considers me little more than a beast. Interesting that she isn't Thalmor. I do have to wonder what she's doing here, serving a human noble house that's so far decayed.
"My lady," Ivar murmured with a curt nod, one jarl's servant to another.
"I wish to speak with you, before you go about the jarl's business." Her voice was cool and musical. "There are forces at work here you must understand."
"I think I understand them well enough. Dengeir of Stuhn was ten times the jarl that spoiled puppy can manage, but Dengeir opposes the Empire, and so he had to go."
Nenya inclined her head. "Falkreath is not easy in its allegiance to the Empire. Many say that Ulfric Stormcloak has the right. Yet already the people of this holding suffer from brigandage and misrule. To permit the Stormcloaks free rein would add civil war to the tally . . . and we lie directly on the best travel routes from the south. If the Legions send reinforcements to General Tullius and find Falkreath in rebellion, the holding will burn. Not even Dengeir is willing to see that happen, and so Siddgeir rules in Falkreath."
"I understand. Siddgeir regards me as a shiny bauble to add to his collection." Ivar stared into the elf's tawny-gold eyes. "How do you regard me?"
"As a tool," she said forthrightly. "One that I may wield to keep the peace."
The smith stepped close. "Beware, my lady. I am a tool that thinks. Do not expect to use me and then set me aside."
She stared into his eyes, level with her own, and a slow smile spread across her lips. "Do you think to bid for a more intimate partnership?"
Ivar snorted. "Hardly. You are no more to my taste than I imagine I am to yours. But my desires and yours seem likely to march together. I want a quiet place to live and prosper, nothing more."
"Well." She nodded, satisfied. "That much, I think we can win. If we work together."