Interlude 10 – Unanswered Questions

"What do you mean, you don't know?"

"I… we really have no idea, sir." The man averts his gaze. "Our scouts have ranged throughout the entire western half of the pass and into the surrounding valleys. Even if the two agents from Ivarstead are already dead and buried, we would've at least found traces of their remains. But there's no sign of them anywhere."

Commander Lucius Maro rubs the bridge of his nose and sighs. It's a struggle, but his bubbling anger slowly dissipates as his deeply-instilled professionalism regains control. "…Get out. I need to think about this."

"Yes sir." His unfortunate subordinate snaps off a crisp salute before quietly slinking out of his office in the partially renovated ruin of Helgen's largest inn.

As the crooked door closes with a grating squeak, Maro drops onto a rickety stool behind his makeshift desk and curses loudly. It's wrong of him to cast blame on the poor man for simply being the bearer of bad news. Divines know he found himself in that same position far too frequently during the early years of his own career. But still, bad news is bad news, and this news in particular is downright frustrating.

About a week ago, the two agents he'd dispatched to Ivarstead sent back a message through a trustworthy courier informing Maro that they were planning to shadow a suspect into the wilderness. They assumed the target would go through Steelhead Pass based on intelligence they'd gathered from the local populace, and this was supported by the fact that many of the roads between Ivarstead and the White River Gorge had been washed out by severe spring floods. Shortly afterwards, they sent a second message by carrier pigeon indicating their imminent departure for Steelhead Pass in pursuit of their quarry and claiming they would try to apprehend him for delivery to Helgen. Maro organized several over-strength patrols to clear out Stormcloak elements near Steelhead Pass to ensure they wouldn't interfere with the mission.

But after that last carrier pigeon… nothing. For the past week there hasn't been a single sign of his two agents or their suspect, who they'd described in their letters as a man of uncertain ethnicity and short stature with dark hair and a beard. Given that Maro's agents were Nords, he's interpreting the 'short stature' comment to mean average height by the rest of the Empire's standards.

Steelhead Pass should be traversable without any issues at this time of year. It hasn't been blocked by landslides or other environmental phenomena at any point along its length. His scouts have made sure of that.

This means his two missing agents almost certainly weren't delayed by natural causes, so whatever issue upset their timetable this badly must've been very serious. They should've been here days ago.

He doesn't consider incompetence as the source of their troubles. Incompetent agents don't last long in the Penitus Oculatus.

His first inclination is to blame the Stormcloaks. They've been active in this region for well over a year, requiring his scouts to travel in fairly large groups in order to deter ambushes. Greater numbers make it more difficult for them to remain hidden, but it's safer overall. In the case of two men however, they wouldn't have the same advantage of strength in numbers. They'd be on their own.

He's skeptical, however. The rebellious Nords of the Old Holds have been strangely taciturn ever since the botched execution of Ulfric Stormcloak in Last Seed. Based on recent reports, he gets the uneasy feeling that they're building up their strength for something, though he couldn't begin to guess what that might be. A renewed offensive perhaps. The Pale and Falkreath are both vulnerable to their incursions right now for different reasons. And there's Whiterun to consider as well, he adds as an afterthought. Although that doesn't seem as likely to me. If Ulfric Stormcloak hasn't violated their neutrality yet, then I doubt he will anytime soon. But I've been wrong before.

Besides the Stormcloaks, there have also been scattered reports of vampire activity in Steelhead Pass. Maro considers the intel to be unreliable at best and intentional fearmongering at worst, mostly because his men aren't aware of any caverns or valleys in the area that are both large and discreet enough to act as a lair for an entire coven of vampires. That doesn't mean it's out of the question, the cynical part of his mind insists.

On top of that, there are Skyrim's native wild beasts and recent influx of dragons to consider as well. Any number of these threats could've killed or severely wounded his agents, causing them to vanish off the face of Nirn. The worst part of it, as his subordinate stated just now, is that they simply don't know.

This has been a mess from start to finish. Maro doesn't make a habit of wasting his time dwelling on what ifs, but surely he could've done things differently to avoid outright losing track of the suspect from Ivarstead. The Penitus Oculatus does not make these kinds of elementary mistakes. His agents are the best of the best. They're trained in all forms of combat, wilderness and urban navigation, magic of various Schools, and their physical conditioning ensures they have the strength and stamina to carry out whatever tasks are required of them. This should've played out very differently.

But it didn't. And now he needs to resolve this impending disaster before it turns into something worse.

He hangs his head. "Divines save me," he growls. "I can't allow this to have been a complete waste of our resources. Much more than my career will be on the line."

He raises his voice and calls to his personal aide, the son of one of his comrades who was killed during the Great War. He's still too young and inexperienced to become a full-fledged agent, but the day for him to prove his worth will soon arrive. The aide tentatively pokes his head through the doorway.

"Summon my Intendants. All of them. I don't care what they're doing, just get them in here as fast as possible. And I also want every map we have of the surrounding area inside my office and on that table in five minutes. No excuses. No delays. See that it's done."

"Yes sir!" The young man bobs his head and sprints out of the building.

Time is of the essence. We don't know what happened to my men, but I'm not taking any chances. This is too much of a coincidence, and needless to say, I don't believe in coincidences anymore. There's a popular witticism among veteran agents of the Penitus Oculatus that the Great War was one gigantic series of coincidences, the crux of the joke being that every single one of those coincidences were intricate schemes enacted by the Thalmor with years of planning ahead of time. Either our suspect is dead in a roadside ditch or he's still alive and running around out there somewhere. If it's the latter, then we're going to find him. We have to.

Five minutes later, his office is packed from wall to wall with dozens of his officers, messengers, and other assorted personnel along with a great many maps and related paraphernalia. Their deputies and bodyguards remain outside of the building where they unobtrusively form a loose perimeter to ward away eavesdroppers. You can never be too careful when you're sharing lodgings with the Thalmor.

Maro's most senior Intendents gather directly in front of his desk where he can converse with them easily. They begin the proceedings by going over the missing agents' final message and trying to determine their suspect's the most probable route through Steelhead Pass.

"The likelihood that somebody could circumvent Helgen without being detected by our pickets – or our Thalmor bunkmates for that matter – is essentially negligible," one Intendent reports. "I personally believe we should dismiss it entirely. Even expert Illusion mages would find it almost impossible to slip past us."

"What are the other possibilities then?" Maro impatiently demands.

One of the more junior Intendants draws his attention to a chart of the northern Jeralls spread across the table and points to a row of peaks between Steelhead Pass and Lake Neugrad. "A person with in-depth knowledge of the local terrain would be able to cut south through the mountains from right here to Neugrad. The cartographer's notes indicate it's too perilous of a route for a large number of men to safely use, but a single person could do it."

Maro grimaces. The Legate in command of Neugrad won't be happy about the Penitus Oculatus infringing on his authority, but there's no other option. Tough luck. He hasn't gotten to where he is today without stepping on a few toes. "Then dispatch agents to place the garrison on alert. I want Neugrad and its environs to be crawling with legionaries by this time tomorrow."

"Yes sir!" His division's resident scribe jots down his commands on a sheet of parchment almost as quickly as he speaks them. When the scribe is finished, he presents the parchment to Maro for a stamp of his wax seal of approval. One of the messengers hastily salutes, accepts the sealed letter, and runs to the veritable herd of saddled horses that have been collected outside.

"Next?" Maro barks.

Another of the senior Intendents steps forward, a Cyrod with traditional Nibenean tattoos. "There are a few other minor routes into and out of Steelhead Pass, but most of them can safety be ignored due to recent rockfalls, large amounts of unmelted snow, or other natural factors that make them completely impassible at this time. Discounting those, I think we've covered all of the alternative trails in this area. Of course, there's always the possibility that our men and their target never entered Steelhead Pass to begin with."

Maro looks up and frowns at that comment. As he does, the Intendant reaches over the table and slides forward a map of the western Rift for his reference.

"Before they went missing, our two agents in Ivarstead confirmed that the largest passes between the Rift and the White River Gorge have been severed by seasonal flooding. However, there are multiple other routes that somebody could take to reach Whiterun from the east. You could follow the Darkwater River to Fort Amol for example, and there's also a complex network of alpine gorges cutting southwards into the Jeralls in the vicinity of Arcwind Point that I think we should give serious consideration as well. Legate Fasendil's forces are currently operating in that area, but they could've missed a single individual slipping through their net – which is understandable, as they wouldn't have known he was a person of interest to the Empire due to our high levels of operational security. I'd actually be willing to say that's more likely than not. With this in mind, we shouldn't dismiss the chance that our men and their suspect took one of these routes without ever entering Steelhead Pass to begin with. Plans can change and nothing survives contact with the enemy, as we know all too well. They might've encountered shifting conditions and decided to proceed along a different route without having an opportunity to communicate their intentions to us."

Maro places his hands on the table and scowls. He can't refute the Nibenean Intendant's words, but he hates to think that they've been investigating the wrong section of the Jeralls for this entire week. It would be incredibly inconvenient if his missing agents never exited the Rift in the first place. For one thing, he's loath to send more of his men to search in dangerous territory without knowing it'll be worthwhile. Avoiding unnecessary risks is one of the hallmarks of the Penitus Oculatus. But to his dismay, it seems like he won't have much of a choice in the matter. Every avenue needs to be explored, no matter how unlikely.

"Send a patrol-in-force through Steelhead Pass into the Rift," he orders. "We need to make sure we're looking in all the right places. Link up with Fasendil if necessary and make sure they take copies of my letters of introduction so he knows who exactly he's dealing with. I won't have our efforts stymied by legionary bureaucracy."

The Intendant salutes. "As you say."

Another man speaks up. "Sir, deploying a large number of men further east than Orphan Rock Vale could be extremely risky. Our operational capacity is limited beyond that point by logistical realities. On top of that, the mountains are still crawling with Stormcloak warbands. Some of the more stubborn ones managed to escape from our patrols earlier this month and vanished into the high valleys like damn ghosts. We've been trying to root them out for weeks without any luck."

"We sent two men through the pass without too much trouble when this mission first began. If we could do it once, then we can do it however many we want. We just have to be smart about it." Maro turns back to the table covered in a collage of maps. "I've made my decision. Send out that patrol and don't forget the letters for Fasendil. Is there anything else?"

"Just one more, sir." An agent presents another map to him, this one faded and cracked with age. He taps his finger on a circular elevation mark denoting Orphan Rock Vale. "We aren't certain, but we believe there might be some sort of route through the mountains between Orphan Rock and the upper White River Valley. We know for a fact that the Stormcloaks have a smuggling trail hidden somewhere up there. If our suspect knows the way, there's a chance he could've already crossed over into Whiterun Hold without our knowledge."

"Hmm." Maro scratches his chin, noting in the back of his mind that he really ought to trim his goatee, and slowly nods. It's true that the Stormcloaks have somehow been evading Imperial patrols for months in that area. If the rebels have discovered a secret path, then it isn't infeasible that others could've learned about it as well. "You make a good point, agent. We'd be remiss to ignore this. Send a detachment north to begin an investigation along the White River and be sure that they adhere to standard protocols for operating in hostile territory. The Jarl of Whiterun isn't our enemy, but that doesn't mean his subjects will abide by his declaration of neutrality."

There are some deeper reasons for Maro's willingness to deploy his agents to the territory of Whiterun. There have been scattered reports of dragon sightings all across Skyrim in the months following the disaster at Helgen, but only in Whiterun Hold has a dragon been slain outright. Jarl Balgruuf the Greater himself dispatched messages to all corners of the province claiming that his warriors brought low one of the terrible beasts at the cost of dozens of lives lost.

Most logical people concluded that these reports were baseless hearsay and boasting, but Maro knows the truth. His agents saw the dragon's bones with their own eyes as its gargantuan calcified remains were paraded through the streets of Whiterun. The cynical part of him assumed the skeleton was something they already had lying around and decided to use for political purposes – the Jarl of Whiterun famously has a dragon skull hanging over his throne, so it wasn't much of a stretch – but his men were able to confirm beyond all reasonable doubt that the two skulls are unique. They also personally examined the site of the battle and confirmed that it bore certain irrefutable similarities to Helgen. In particular, the long scorch marks along the ground from the flying monsters' strafing fire breath were nearly identical.

By all accounts, dragons are fearsome creatures who possess innate resistance to both magical and mundane attacks. The very town he's standing in now was annihilated by one of the flying beasts. The fact that the warriors of Whiterun slew a dragon by themselves when an entire Imperial garrison failed to do so is strange enough to raise red flags in Maro's mind. There's something odd going on in Whiterun and he's going to find out what.

If his quarry fled to the territory of Whiterun… that would be quite a coincidence.

Again, there are no coincidences.

"Understood commander," his subordinate replies.

"Good." Maro raises his voice to address the room as a whole. "Unless you have anything else to add, start gathering your things and form up."

They quickly scramble to do so. As he examines his gathered subordinates, Maro reflects that it's nice to deal with men who do as they're told without complaining, unlike Lorcalin's Thalmor contingent who only nominally answer to his authority. Getting them to do anything is like herding sugar-addled Khajiit.

"…Spica," he calls out at length. One of his veteran Intendants steps forward with a quick salute. This wiry Colovian woman is dependable under pressure and unafraid to spill blood at a moment's notice, which are very admirable qualities in his opinion. "I'm placing you in command of the search party going into the Rift. The Stormcloaks won't let you leave their territory alive if they catch wind of you, so be vigilant. Keep your agents safe."

"Sir."

"Arcturus." Another agent presents himself, younger but equally grizzled. "You're responsible for the White River Valley detachment. Be on guard for anything suspicious and do not under any circumstances alert the Jarl's men to your presence. We can't afford to jeopardize our relations with Balgruuf the Elder."

"Yes sir."

"Good. You have your marching orders. I expect you all to be on the road before noon. You're dismissed."

His agents disperse with a chorus of affirmations. As they leave, Maro returns to the table and leans down to inspect one of the maps that was left behind, an uncommonly large and detailed specimen. It displays the entire Throat of the World along with a significant portion of the surrounding highlands. The town labelled 'Ivarstead' catches his attention. What exactly happened there?

It irks him to no end that he's been left blindly flailing in the dark like this. But it's part of the job, he thinks wryly. This is the burden we must shoulder so that the rest of the Empire doesn't have to.

The two agents he sent to Ivarstead were specifically chosen because they were Nords who could better blend in with the locals. It was imperative that they stay undetected while searching for the Dragonborn, as accidentally revealing themselves to their quarry could've had dire consequences. The exact consequences they're dealing with now, coincidentally.

But this time around, Maro isn't worried about the operational risk of deploying his Cyrodiilic agents. Spica's orders are to lay low and avoid unnecessary contact with strangers, and as for Arcturus' detachment, there are enough local Cyrods residing in the White River Valley that he doesn't think they'll stand out too much.

Even if that weren't the case, Maro is a hair's breadth away from throwing caution to the wind and spreading out his entire task force across southern Skyrim, consequences be damned. He needs to find out something – anything – about the new Dragonborn and at this point he's willing to do whatever it takes to make that happen.

"Commander Maro. Might I inquire as to the nature of your activities today? You certainly seem to be keeping your men busy."

Impeccably inconvenient timing, as always. Maro exhales heavily and goes through the motions of purging all excess emotion from his expression. Once he's ready, he turns to greet the speaker with his name already on his lips. "Agent Lorcalin. What can I do for you today?"

A High Elf arrayed in a set of golden armor over embroidered black robes confidently steps inside the tavern-turned-command post and allows the door to swing shut behind him. Through the doorway, Maro catches a glimpse of two figures wearing similar garb loitering outside. The Elf's escorts most likely.

"Little, I'm afraid," Lorcalin sneers. "As per usual."

The Thalmor wizard's reedy voice and self-righteous smirk are always infuriating, but Maro's gotten much better at ignoring them over these past months. Practice makes perfect.

"However, I do find myself curious," the Elf continues. "I don't believe I've ever seen your underlings so riled up as they are today. How many have already departed on horseback this morning? A dozen? Two dozen? And in virtually all directions no less. Whatever could be happening, I wonder?"

An electric thrill of uneasiness courses down Maro's spine. The absolute last thing he wants right now is for the Thalmor to catch wind of his true mission. Under no circumstances should they learn about the Empire's interest in the Dragonborn. As far as they're aware – he hopes – the Dragonborn is simply a legend of the Old Empire and the Call of the Greybeards is a rote tradition involving the academically interesting but ultimately unimportant power of the Voice. The return of the dragons is currently occupying the full attention of the Dominion as indicated by their justicars' involvement in the investigation of Helgen, and while that's indeed a major cause for concern, it's far better than the alternative. If they learn about the Dragonborn's existence, there's no doubt in Maro's mind that the Thalmor will do everything in their power to kill them in order to prevent the rise of a new Hero of Men. He doesn't maintain any delusions that they won't find out eventually, but for now he'll do whatever he can to ensure the secrecy of his hidden objective.

"Nothing of significance, I assure you," he smoothly lies. "They're setting out on a series of training exercises to help keep their wits about them. Digging through rubble and burying corpses within these walls for months on end has dulled their field skills beyond what I deem acceptable. I wish to rectify that."

"Training exercises," the Thalmor repeats dubiously.

"Yes. Training exercises."

"And you didn't think to inform myself or my justicars about this? Perhaps we would've liked to participate as well. Don't they say that mutual hardship brings soldiers closer together?" Sarcasm drips from Lorcalin's every word.

"I doubt my agents would care to fraternize with yours more than the bare minimum required for the performance their duties," Maro deadpans.

"Ah. Then perhaps I should raise the point that the unannounced absence of so many of your men will leave our forces here in Helgen critically depleted. How will we maintain an effective perimeter? Will you require us to contribute more mer to the nightly patrols than we already do?"

"Of course not. My Intendents will handle all matters related to scheduling the duty rosters, so rest assured that we won't take up an unfair amount of your time. I know your work is very important."

"Hmph. You ought to say that with a little less scorn in your tone, Commander."

"Did it come across that way? Then I sincerely apologize. It wasn't my intention to cause offense."

"Wasn't it? I do wonder sometimes…"

Lorcalin quirks his thin lips and taps his long fingers against Maro's table. He scans the maps still laying there with sharp yellow eyes.

"As fun as this was, I think that's enough chatting for one day. As you said, my work is very important. I have other matters to attend to in places that stink less of Men. Although I suppose I should thank you for sating my curiosity."

Maro inclines his head. "The pleasure is all mine, Agent Lorcalin. If you need anything else, please relay your requests to my aide and I'll be sure to work you into my schedule as time allows."

The Elf reacts with an undignified snort. "I'll be sure to do that."

He turns on his heel and marches out the door, being sure to slam it behind him loudly enough to make Maro wince.

The Commander of the Penitus Oculatus unconsciously clenches his fists. Piss-stained Elves. A blight upon my soul, the lot of them. They can talk prettily enough, but they're venomous serpents underneath that diplomatic exterior.

He glances again at the detailed map of the Throat of the World with Ivarstead prominently labeled.

All I can do now is wait and pray for the Divines' forbearance. With the way things have been going so far, I get the feeling we'll need all the help we can get.