Chapter 49
Mull doesn't feel like there's much of a rush to acquire the Horn of Jurgen Windcaller, so he and his crew settle down in Whiterun for the next month and a half. Rain's Hand comes and goes in a flurry of activity, with most of the Mighty Mudcrabs' time being devoted to completing odd jobs and training to improve their ability to fight as a cohesive unit. Lydia takes it upon herself to become the company's unofficial drill master with Jenassa's assistance, and soon enough the two women are whipping Mull and Torgen into shape with brutal efficacy. They can handle themselves in a fight just fine – better than the two women, Torgen argues vehemently – but according to Lydia their fundamentals are sorely lacking.
Under their tutelage, Mull's swordsmanship improves a good deal at the cost of many scrapes and bruises. He's never had a hard time killing people but he also never learned how to properly use a sword from a professional, whereas Lydia spent most of her teenage years receiving instruction from Whiterun's finest blademasters. His pride is wounded and his finesse is proportionally increased.
Jenassa proves herself worthy of staying on the Mighty Mudcrab payroll by showing off her impressive skill with sword, knives, and bow at Jorrvaskr's archery range and in the sparring ring behind the barracks. She also demands a requisitely hefty paycheck for her services, forcing Mull to draw money from the stipend he receives as a thane to keep her on board. She knows what she's worth and she isn't afraid to haggle.
During this time Lydia focuses on honing her archery skills with Jenassa and Aela the Huntress, and against all odds the three women soon become fast friends despite their vastly differing personalities. The Huntress is loud and abrasive at the best of times, Jenassa is unsociable and grim, and Lydia is courteous and professional to a fault, but somehow they wind up enjoying each other's company more than ever before during their training days on the range. Lydia finds a much-needed ally against Aela's constant teasing in the form of her new Dunmer comrade. Like her, Jenassa doesn't have much tolerance for the redhead's characteristic outrageousness.
The resident housecarl also pursues a self-taught education in the culinary arts. She was motivated to start learning how to whip up simple but palatable meals shortly after she and Torgen returned from to Ivarstead at the beginning of winter, as her first long-distance journey would've been infinitely more enjoyable if the rations hadn't been abysmal. She doesn't intend to suffer through the same torment again. It's a slow and arduous process with many meals in the barracks being suffered through in faux-polite silence, but Lydia's ability steadily improves with each passing week – a good thing for all involved since Mull, Torgen, and Jenassa are objectively atrocious cooks. The Dunmer mercenary makes a single misguided attempt to introduce her fellow mercenaries to the exotic cuisine of her homeland, poisons Torgen so badly that he would've died if they didn't rush him immediately to the Sanctuary of Kyne, and promptly gives up the effort. She bitterly complains for the next two weeks that nobody in Whiterun can cook a proper kwama egg quiche.
With Jenassa being such a good addition to the group, Mull considers hiring another mercenary to help out with future jobs – someone a bit cheaper, preferably – and eventually sets his sights on Uthgerd the Unbroken, a woman-warrior wielding an enormous greatsword who spends most of her time in the Bannered Mare. But when he brings up the idea to Torgen, the older man unexpectedly does everything in his power to dissuade him.
"She ain't worth the trouble," Torgen insists. "I'm serious. Pick anyone but her. I'm begging you, boss. I'll do whatever it takes, just keep her away from me!" He staunchly refuses to relent, so Mull eventually drops the subject and moves on.
It's disappointing since Uthgerd seems like just the sort of warrior he's looking for, but he won't completely disregard his subordinate's input. He almost gets the impression Torgen is scared of the woman if such a thing were possible. It's usually the women who are scared of him.
Outside of mercenary matters, Mull does his best to keep up with the Greybeards' lessons and meditations, but being away from the isolation of High Hrothgar makes it much more difficult than he thought it'd be. It's a chore to stay in the right mindset for pursuing the Way of the Voice rather than reverting to his old mentalities now that he's out here in the wider world where he isn't constantly immersed in the Arngeir's teachings. It wouldn't be wrong to say he's trying to superimpose a foreign way of thinking onto his old self. He isn't in danger of losing his progress with the Way of the Voice, but it's a never-ending struggle to make meaningful progress.
Mirmulnir occasionally speaks up in the darkness of night or the chill of early dawn, telling Mull he can't afford to stagnate and must take action soon in order to become greater. 'You should not allow yourself to wallow in irrelevance. What does this city hold that you cannot simply seize for yourself? This place is beneath you. You are destined for greater things.'
I don't know about that, he always mentally replies. But try to have some patience for once, you overgrown lizard. It won't be long before I go to Ustengrav and find Jurgen's horn for the Greybeards. Once I do that, I'll meet their Grandmaster and he'll teach me more about the Voice. Then I'm sure I'll gain plenty of power.
'Power is something that must be seized through one's own initiative. It cannot be granted by others,' Mirmulnir rumbles. 'Anything that is freely received can just as freely be taken away.'
As much as he hates to admit it, Mull can't disagree with that statement. He's already encountered this same exact issue with Balgruuf. Just as the Jarl bestowed him with titles and authority, so too can those things be rendered meaningless in a heartbeat. He despises that feeling of helpless subservience, a sentiment Mirmulnir encourages with palpable delight.
Mull visited Dragonsreach a few days after arriving back in Whiterun at his housecarl's behest, endured the Jarl's impassioned demands for him to stay in the city for the foreseeable future, and then told him about his upcoming mission for the Greybeards before turning on his heel and marching out of the great hall, not wanting to hear Balgruuf's outraged response. He's going to get that damn horn and there's nothing the Jarl can do to stop him. Later the same day, Lydia informed him that her father Hrongar had talked down Balgruuf and convinced him to let the Dragonborn leave for the Hjaalmarch whenever the time comes, since an assignment granted directly by the revered Greybeards themselves isn't something mortal men have the right to interfere with. As if I need his permission to do anything.
Otherwise, life goes on much the same as normal – except for one thing that admittedly might just be his imagination. Whenever he's walking around the streets of Whiterun, it often feels like he's being watched and followed everywhere he goes. Even when he takes random detours, cuts through public buildings, and even climbs onto rooftops once or twice, the sensation never completely goes away. It grates on him constantly and makes him more than a little paranoid, but he never figures out what exactly is causing it. He confides in Lydia and Torgen with vague orders to keep their guard up and stay vigilant at all times, especially at night, but he keeps his mouth shut whenever they ask him what's going on. He doesn't know either, although he does have a few theories. Each is more worrisome than the last.
-x-
One evening, Mull and Torgen get to talking about the vampire ambush in Steelhead Pass while working through a round of Honningbrew mead. Over the course of the conversation, the older bandit raises the good point that they're beyond screwed if they run across more than one or two vampires in the wilderness during their future travels. "If princess hadn't had that fancy knife we took from the hagraven, I really think both her and I would've become hot and ready meals for that bloodsucker. It was mostly luck that we survived without getting infected. So I guess I was thinking, shouldn't we do something to make sure we don't find ourselves in that kind of mess again?"
"Like what?" Mull asks.
"I dunno. Maybe we could ask the wizard to come with us whenever we're out and about."
"Who, Danica Pure-Spring?"
"No boss, I mean the wizard. The one with that fancy office up in Dragonsreach." Torgen snaps his fingers a few times as he mutters to himself. "What was it… Faregyl? Farengar?"
"Oh, hell no," Mull retorts immediately. "Absolutely not. I can't stand that egg-brained snowback. We aren't taking him with us to the Hjaalmarch, and if we do, I know I'll end up slicing his throat and dumping him in a ditch within a week."
"Sounds like there's some bad history between the two of you."
"There is," he mutters darkly. "He was the moron who thought it'd be a good idea for me to go to Bleak Falls Barrow. He assured me that nothing could possibly go wrong. We both know how much of a lie that turned out to be."
Torgen grimaces. "Alright, I see why you might not like him."
"But, you know…" Back when Mull fought and killed that frost troll on the Seven Thousand Steps, he distinctly remembers thinking it would be a good idea to learn some fire magic at some point. Not only would that be extremely useful against trolls and other native wildlife, but it's also one of the banes of vampires. Fire has always been mortalkind's most useful tool against the undead.
"What're you scheming there, boss?"
"Before we leave Whiterun again, I might see about getting my hands on some flame spells – if I've got the aptitude, that is. Hiring wizards is an expensive business and I doubt Farengar would be willing to abandon his comfortable life of leafing through books deep inside the Jarl's nice, safe hall. But if I can fill the role of vampire slayer for us, then our problem would be solved."
"I know I don't have a lick of talent with magic, so that'll have to be on your head. D'you think you can do it?"
"I don't know." He knocks back the last of his mead, savoring the tangy sweetness as it rushes down his throat. "But there's one way to find out."
-x-
Mull concentrates harder than he's ever concentrated in his entire life. He clutches his outstretched arm with his opposite hand to stabilize his outwards-facing palm and forcefully grits his teeth. An ice-cold rush of heavenly energy surges through his veins, making the skin on his arms and legs erupt into goosebumps.
"Battle-magic of this sort obviously requires magicka as all spells do, but that shouldn't be its primary source of fuel," Farengar drones tonelessly. "Rather, the fuel should be your will. This magic will only manifest at full power if you cast it with an arrogant certainty that you're shaping the world into the way it ought to be. I won't waste a lecture on you as I doubt you possess the necessary intellect to grasp the most basic fundamentals of magic, but where the mind may fail, the will can sometimes rise to the occasion. You're an uncommonly headstrong man so I believe you can achieve your goal, but you must accept that it will take more time and effort than most. An individual's aptitude for magic is dependent on both his bloodline and his natural disposition, and it appears neither of those things will be a boon for you."
Mull, Torgen, and the Court Wizard of Whiterun are currently occupying a second-story balcony that protrudes from the northwestern side of Dragonsreach, giving them an unobstructed view over about one-third of the circular Cloud District. Farengar's study would've been a terrible place to practice fire magic, what with all the historical documents and antique maps of incalculable value, so the wizard led them here instead.
"Thanks for the encouragement," Mull growls as he directs every scrap of magicka he can wrangle into his spell. He squeezes his eyes shut and turns inwards, feeling out the magic-veins crisscrossing his body and mapping their branching contours. He directs the photosynthetic energy of Aetherius with as subtle of a touch as he can manage, steering it to grant his desires, but his understanding of the arcane properties of magicka is novitiate at best so he isn't sure if he's doing it right. Farengar's backhanded hints haven't been much help either. He was kind enough to walk Mull through the basics of channeling magicka, but after that he took a step back and said 'good luck.'
With a strangled cry, Mull explosively exhales and commands the magicka within his body to erupt from his hands in a plume of devastating flame. He vividly envisions his enemies being immolated and reduced to piles of smoking ash. This isn't a question of knowledge of inborn capability. This is a question of willpower, and he wills it to happen.
A tiny puff of smoke spurts from his palm, dissipating into a harmless shower of sparks that travel less than a foot before spiraling sadly to the ground. For the dozenth time, his attempt at casting a beginner-level flame spell has ended in unambiguous failure. He doubts he could even light a fire with something that pathetic. The balcony falls dead silent for a long moment.
Then Torgen howls with laughter from his seat on a straw-cushioned chair near the edge of the balcony, where he's been leering at noblewomen in the palatial gardens below for the last hour or so. "With tricks like that, you can pursue your childhood dream as a performer in the Jarl's court!" he hollers as he clutches his sides and rocks back and forth. "Oh, Shor save me, this is incredible."
"Keep it to yourself unless you have something helpful to add," Mull snarls at him. The older man ignores him as he continues laughing loudly enough to disturb flocks of birds from their roosts beneath the eaves of Dragonsreach, sending them fluttering into the sky.
Four hours later, dusk is approaching and Mull has only managed to improve a tiny bit. He can create a large enough gout of flame to potentially injure somebody or at least singe their eyebrows if he's standing face to face with them, but not much more than that. Farengar encourages him to keep at it despite his less-than-impressive performance. "These things never come quickly to the uninitiated," he reveals in the tone of a wise old teacher. The effect is ruined by the mocking slant of his lips. "That said, I do believe your desire to better defend yourselves against necromantic constructs is a very sensible goal. If there's anything I can do to help you keep lady Lydia safe, I shall do it without question. However… there is one thing you could do for me in return."
"What?" Mull irritably demands.
"Walk with me and I shall show you."
They return to the wizards study, where Torgen promptly falls asleep on a couch while Farengar brews a pot of aromatic tea. When the tea is done, the wizard sets a steaming mug in front of Mull along with a stack of faded parchment. Mull gives him a questioning glance and Farengar gestures for him to partake.
"And this is?"
"Elves ear tea. My favorite."
"No, you imbecile. The papers."
"Ah. That is an exceedingly ancient manuscript titled 'Survey of the Holdings of Jarl Gjalund,' who was an obscure Jarl of Whiterun during the Merethic Era. As you can no doubt see for yourself, the contents of this tome are written in the archaic alphabet unique to the dragon tongue. I've unfortunately encountered insurmountable difficulties in my attempts to translate it since much of the vocabulary is complex or otherwise unrecognizable, so I'll consider the price for my tutelage fully paid if you can decode these pages for me. It would also be a boon to the city of Whiterun's endeavors to gain greater knowledge about our draconian enemies, although I doubt you care much about that."
"You're right. I don't." Mull wearily sighs, sets his arms on the table, and leans over the musty pages. "Let's see what we're working with here. As Witnessed by Slafknir the Scribe… Talos above, what kind of name is that? So Sworn by the Old Gods and the New. Whiterun: The Jarl's Holding, with Plentiful Water and Pasturage. Home of Jorrvaskr, the Far-Famed Hall of the Companions. Huh, maybe Aela wasn't lying when she said Jorrvaskr was older than the Empire. Rorik's Steading: A Small Farmstead in the Western Plains. Grain, Leather, Horses. Granite Hill: Three Farms and an Inn, just North of the Falkreath. A Market is Held here Weekly. H'roldan: A Spacious Wooden Hall and Pasturage, recently Seized from the Reachmen. Silver and Iron as Tribute from the Natives. Bromjunaar: An Old Settlement, much Reduced from Former Days. Lumber and Stone. Korvanjund: A Small Fortified Settlement. Hides and Meat. Volunruud: A Fortified Wooden Hall near Giants' Gap. Meat and Worked Ivory. Hillgrund's Steading: A Large Farmstead Near the Base of the Monahven. Grain, Mead, Honey…"
-x-
The lower districts are overtaken by a tsunami of rumors about a certain group of Redguard sellswords who've recently arrived in Whiterun. A few new útlendings wandering into town wouldn't usually be worth mentioning since Skyrim's centermost Hold is a hub for mercenary activity, but these particular men don't seem to be here to find work. Instead, they've come to Whiterun to search for somebody specific.
While he's picking up a few bundles of arrows from the Drunken Huntsman one afternoon, Torgen is unexpectedly accosted by two of the red-and-blue-robed Redguard strangers near the city's south gate. He feels their hawkish gazes burning into his back before they've even said a word, so he isn't surprised when one of them calls to him without preamble.
"You there. Big man."
He turns around a glances between the pair of dark-skinned útlendings with feigned astonishment. "Who, me? Well what can I do for ya?" he asks good-naturedly. People often drop their guard when you put on a friendly face, making it a useful skill in his line of work.
"We're looking for someone in Whiterun and will pay good money for information. She's a woman, a Redguard like us and a foreigner in these lands. Her true name is Iman of House Suda, but she's likely using a pseudonym. We believe she's somewhere inside the city." The Redguard's accent is thick and he emphasizes syllables in strange ways, but his Nordic is passable. His loose cotton garb, blue turban, and sunbaked skin make it clear that he isn't from around here.
"Well that's great, but I don't see what this has to do with me." Torgen hefts the bundle of arrows from the Drunken Huntsman held in his muscular arms and starts to walk away. "Good luck though. I know how hard it can be to chase after a skittish woman."
He stops dead in his tracks when the Redguard lays a firm hand on his shoulder from behind. "Again, we will pay for any information regarding her location. Any hints, any leads," the útlending stresses.
The second Redguard's flowing robes swish audibly around his feet as he paces closer to Torgen with a palm resting lightly on the pommel of his strange sword with a curved blade. This one isn't wearing a turban, revealing a shaved head and dark eyes. He hasn't spoken a word yet. Maybe he doesn't speak Nordic at all.
Torgen stares hard at the swordsman from the corner of his eye, astutely analyzing the unmistakable aggression in his posture. The one with the hand on his shoulder isn't being outwardly rude with his words, but the swordsman's sharp movements speak to his ample experience in matters of fighting and killing. These aren't the kind of people he wants to mess with unless he's got the boss or the princess backing him up. Preferably both.
He glances over his shoulder at the first Redguard. "Is that right? And why are you handsome gentlemen looking for this lucky lady, if you don't mind me asking?"
"It's none of your concern, but suffice it to say that she's a traitor to the Kingdom of Hammerfell. All you need to worry about is that we're paying for information – two hundred septims for each verifiable tip. If that doesn't interest you then feel free to walk away. We aren't welcome within the walls of Whiterun, so we'll be encamped outside the gates. Come find us there if you learn anything."
The speaker finally releases Torgen's shoulder and steps back. The Nord bandit rolls his arms and silently appraises the two Redguards as they turn and stride away without another word. Only then does he notice a helmeted man wearing a heather-gold tabard of Whiterun discreetly observing the pair of armed foreigners from a side street.
"Not welcome in Whiterun, huh?" he mutters. "I wonder why, when you're going around accosting random people like that. Don't you know the meaning of subtle? That's just unprofessional."
He tsks and shakes his head as he sets off towards the barracks. The arrows aren't going to deliver themselves and he already wasted too much time flirting with elvish women in the Drunken Huntsman.
"The boss will definitely want to here about this," he mumbles under his breath. "Two hundred gold ain't nothing to scoff at. If this Iman lady really is somewhere in Whiterun, I have a feeling he'll want to do a little digging."
-x-
Torgen's guess is spot on. The promise of two hundred septims is too good to pass up, so Mull embarks on a mission to scour the city the very next day. Lydia accompanies him while Torgen and Jenassa are dispatched to do the same in the townlands outside the walls, just in case the Redguard warriors' quarry is somehow hiding right under their own noses.
He starts at the bottom and works his way up, first interrogating a few patrons at the White Whale and other seedy taverns before moving on to the more successful businesses and nicer establishments close to the Temple District.
The day passes swiftly without much success. Redguard women aren't exactly common in Whiterun, but they aren't uncommon either. Quite a few migrants have made their way to central Skyrim through the Falkreath-to-Elinhir trade routes over the years and some of them even managed to integrate themselves into the local noble class. Mull specifically remembers seeing Avenicci's wife during one of his visits in Dragonsreach, a full-blooded Redguard with chocolate skin and brown hair who stood out among the crowds of fair-skinned and golden-haired Nords like a sore thumb.
They find more than a few Redguard women throughout the lower city, but none of them seem unusually suspicious or jumpy and every single one has an alibi of some sort that their friends or family members are able to verify. Some of them claim to be the daughters or sisters of Redguard families who've lived in Whiterun for multiple generations and have never been to Hammerfell. Others are the wives of local men who don't have family members to back them up but whose friends vouch for their innocence. Mull takes note of all of them and moves on, planning to come back later for the ones whose stories have the most egregious holes.
The sun is descending from its zenith overhead by the time he and Lydia arrive at the Bannered Mare, the final tavern in the lower districts on their list before they plan to start combing the Temple District. Mull discreetly opens the front door and slinks inside, careful not to draw unnecessary attention to himself, but the effect is ruined when Lydia marches in behind him with her confident straight-backed posture and upturned chin. Multiple pairs of eyes follow them as Mull makes his rounds through the common room, briefly scanning each face for distinguishing features. That damnable bard Mikael is singing and strumming somewhere in the hearthlit gloom. Smug bastard.
At first it looks like he's going to be disappointed again, but then he reaches the rearmost section of the common room and catches sight of a woman who's unmistakably a Redguard. The area is mostly deserted, so she's hard to miss. She looks like a tavern wench if her low-cut shoulderless beige dress and tight leather corset are any indication. Every aspect of her attire above the waist is clearly intended to accentuate her sizable bust, but the beginnings of wrinkles not quite hidden by her curly black bangs suggest that she's past her prime. She must be around forty or forty-five if Mull had to guess.
But much more noticeable than the wrinkles are the handful of prominent scars tracing horizontally across her nose and cheeks. The arrangement of her hair almost hides them from view, but not quite.
She's busily sweeping the timber floors and doesn't pay much attention until Mull steps right up to her, cornering her between two tables. Her head shoots up with a panicked start and she stares anxiously at him as she clutches the broom in a protective grip, like it's a polearm instead of a cleaning implement.
He very intentionally doesn't grin. Now that's a promising reaction. Just what I've been looking for.
"If you need more food or drink, Hulda's the one to talk to," the woman guardedly tells him. Her accent is distinctly Yoku – of the variety native to the fringes of the Alik'r Desert, to be specific. It's been a long time since Mull last heard someone speak with that melodic lilt.
"Did you know there are warriors from Hammerfell looking for a Redguard woman inside the walls?" he conversationally asks. "Strange, isn't it? What do you make of that?"
Lydia steps up next to him and crosses her arms. Her expression is equal parts apologetic and firm.
The woman's gaze tremulously flickers between them. "A-are you sure?"
"Pretty sure, yeah."
"Oh no! They've found me? Then I'll need your help! Please, come with me! I need to speak with you privately."
She goes to brush past Mull, but he holds out an arm and wraps it around her slim waist. "Woah there, not so fast. You lost me. So you're saying you are the woman they're after, but now you want me to help you? I don't follow."
The woman stares up at him from beneath her frizzy bangs and tugs on the collar of her dress, giving him an unobstructed view of her cleavage. "Quickly, come with me," she breathes seductively.
"…Eh?" He's completely thrown for a loop by her abrupt reversal in attitude and wordlessly returns her stare as the gears whirr inside his brain. Lydia starts pouting at him with her lips pressed together and he realizes he's currently holding the Redguard in a rather compromising position.
But what's really bothering him is this woman's reaction. She didn't adopt an emotionless mask or try to lie, but instead immediately told the truth in a way that seemed like it might've been rehearsed beforehand. That isn't how these things are supposed to work. Not unless she's already planning something.
"Uh… lead the way then," he tonelessly replies.
The Redguard woman giggles playfully and pulls his arm away from her hips, which he allows without stopping her. He also doesn't stop her when she laces her fingers between his own and starts tugging him along. "You can help me, can't you?" she huskily murmurs. "I'll pay you back with plenty of gold and… other things. Whatever you want of me, just ask for it. I won't mind it."
Lydia glares daggers at him, but he discreetly taps the pommel of his sword in a prearranged signal. His housecarl instantly gets the message and trails after them without a single complaint.
The Redguard glances at the younger girl and smiles. "Oh, is she coming too? That's fine. I can work with two at once."
Lydia blanches.
"My name is Saadia," the Redguard reveals as she leads Mull by the hand to a flight of stairs. "What's yours?"
"Erard. She's Freydis."
"Erard and Freydis. Mmhm." Saadia escorts them up the stairs, around the perimeter of a balcony overlooking the central hearth below, and into a secluded private room with a single oversized bed. "Won't you help me?" she asks again in a small voice while leading Mull closer to the bed. Her full lips and tousled hair are tantalizing enough to befuddle the mind of any man, but those aren't what capture Mull's attention.
It's her eyes.
They're cold. Calculating. The eyes of someone capable of killing in cold blood without hesitation.
He shoves her away just in time to avoid the blade of a hidden dagger that she tries to slam into the side of his head. It must've been concealed inside her sleeve or a discrete pocket.
The woman stumbles against the side of the bed, regains her footing, and lunges again. This time she aims directly for his throat. He doesn't have enough time to draw his weapons.
So instead he sweeps back his right leg, bats aside her outstretched arm with his own, and seizes her wrist while pulling her against himself to trap her. This is a maneuver he's used many times. She might've almost taken him by surprise, but this isn't the first time somebody's tried to shank him. Or the second, or third, or fourth.
He squeezes and twists Saadia's wrist until she shrieks and drops the knife. It clatters loudly to the floor, making him wince. Someone downstairs probably heard that.
Oh. And the screaming.
"Let go of me!" she screeches while wiggling in his arms like a snake.
"Stop struggling for one damn second and maybe I'll-!"
Lydia sprints towards the developing scuffle at top speed, readies her arm, and delivers a devastating right hook out of nowhere with the entire coiled force of her body behind it. A meaty crunch resounds through the room as Saadia's head is rocked violently backwards by the impact. Blood spurts into the air and she slumps bonelessly in Mull's arms. The sudden violence is so unexpected that Mull unthinkingly releases the Redguard woman and lets her flop to the floor like a sack of potatoes.
He gives his housecarl a bewildered look.
She nonchalantly shakes out her reddened fist and scowls. "What a vile woman," she mutters. "No shame at all."
"…Nice punch," he says numbly.
"Hmph. Perhaps my Thane was entranced by this wench's exotic beauty, but I was vigilant for signs of duplicity from the moment we stepped foot in the room. She couldn't fool me."
"She didn't fool me either," he protests. "You seemed to think she had me wrapped around her little finger there at the beginning, but I didn't even come close to falling for it. Give me some credit."
She studies him for a long moment before abruptly facing away. "…You did well to resist her wiles," she says stiffly.
"Aye, it was easy," he huffs as he crouches down and feels Saadia's wrist for a pulse. Luckily, she's still alive. "I suppose she's pretty enough, but I've never been attracted to older women."
"Ah. Then… what sort of woman are you attracted to?" she innocently inquires without looking at him.
"Blonde, fair skin, and bursting with enough energy to burn down a house." He rummages through the various pockets of Saadia's dress and fishes out another knife along with a plethora of more mundane objects. "This woman was prepared for a fight," he murmurs.
"That sounds suspiciously like a certain bard we met in Ivarstead," Lydia comments in a warning tone.
Mull freezes. "…Does it?"
"Yes. Very much so."
"…Huh. I guess it does." Blonde hair, check. Fair skin, check. Bursting with energy, definitely. Aye, maybe Lynly Star-Sung does share more than a few similarities with Morven. He isn't sure what to do with that information.
"Moving on to more pressing matters, what should we do with this troublesome wench?" Lydia asks with a hint of vindictiveness.
Mull shakes away the thoughts of Morven and gets back to business. He rolls the unconscious woman onto her stomach and roughly pulls her arms behind her back. "Find me some rope or something. We should truss her up before doing anything else. She might wake up and try to ventilate my skull again."
There isn't any rope to be found, so they use strips of Saadia's linen bedsheets to bind her wrists and ankles together. They also throw a discarded burlap sack over her head at Mull's insistence, just in case somebody notices her bloodied face and gets the wrong idea. Lydia claims that being seen with a forcibly hooded woman in their possession will look even more questionable, but they agree to disagree and move on.
Mull's original goal was simply to find information about Iman of House Suda, but since they've seemingly stumbled across the vixen herself, he decides to go ahead and take her straight to the Redguard warriors outside the south gate. Might as well at this point, and maybe there'll be bonus pay thrown in for their efficiency.
He tosses the lightly battered woman over his shoulder and trundles down the stairs with Lydia marching in front to urge people out of his way. He shouts to a baffled Nord woman standing behind the bar as he and Lydia hurry outside. "This one got herself into some trouble. Thane's business, so don't worry about it."
"I-is that Saadia?!" the proprietress yells. "Wait! Where do you think you're-?!"
Lydia slams the door shut before clearing the way for Mull and his cargo to venture into the crowded streets. "Thane's business! Please make way!" she loudly announces to everyone in earshot as they powerwalk away from the Bannered Mare. The throngs of townspeople mostly step aside and they make good time to the southern gate. They get lots of odd looks but nobody steps in to intervene.
The guardsmen at the gate seem just as baffled as the Bannered Mare's outraged bartender and ask what in Oblivion they're doing, but Mull shakes his head and flashes the horsehead pommel of his sword. That convinces them to mind their own business. Sometimes being a thane isn't so bad. There's no way I could've gotten away with something like this back in the old days.
Just as they're almost through the final segment of the gatehouse complex, Saadia stirs and groans loudly. "Wha… where am I?" she whimpers in Yoku from within her burlap sack.
"We're on our way to meet some of your friends," Mull informs her in the same language as he hitches her body into a more comfortable position atop his shoulder. It's been a while since he last spoke the language of the Redguards and he stumbles over a few of the longer words.
Lydia glances curiously at him but remains silent.
"W-who… hey!" Saadia suddenly starts writhing, forcing Mull to stop and toss her to the ground unless he wants to be upended along with her. She slams against the unforgiving cobblestones with a painful "umph!" and starts struggling to get on her feet, which she quickly discovers is impossible with her limbs bound so tightly. "What do you want from me?!"
"A payday." Mull's voice drips with boredom as he inspects his fingernails. "So if you'd kindly stop fighting back, we'll get you delivered to your destination here in the next few minutes. Torgen said those Redguards were supposed to be somewhere close to the gate, right?" he asks Lydia in Nordic.
"That's correct, my Thane."
"Perfect."
"Y-you'll never take me alive!" Saadia screams while continuing to wiggle like an agitated worm. "If you speak our people's noble tongue, then surely you're a son of Old Yokuda! A true Redguard would be helping me escape! My only crime was having the courage to risk my life for the sake of our country! I stood against our enemies and rallied our allies beneath the banner of a brighter future!"
"What a pain," Mull sighs as he switches back to Yoku. "Alright, first off, do I look like a Redguard to you? And second, just please shut up. I don't care about you desert-dwellers' petty politics. I'm turning you in for the money and that's all there is to it. This isn't personal, so take your sob story to someone who gives a skeever's ass because it ain't me."
She doesn't shut up.
"We'll do this the hard way then. Lydia, take her ankles. I'll get the shoulders."
"As you say."
Together they lift the frantic woman and march through the outer gates with her suspended helplessly between them. She continues crying for help at the top of her lungs, but the gate guards and people waiting to be inspected for entry to the city just stand and watch the spectacle with mounting confusion.
Not far from the city stables, they're hailed by a group of Redguards swathed in flowing robes who wave for them to come closer. Those look like our men.
"Are you the mercenaries from Hammerfell?" Mull yells as they approach the stables.
"Indeed!" a man replies through cupped hands. "If that is Iman of House Suda, then please bring her here!"
"Got it!" Mull and Lydia struggle up a flight of riverstone steps to the central paddock of the stables and soon find themselves surrounded by about a dozen Redguards. Every single one of them is armed with a curved sword, although none have drawn weapons yet. They seem cautious but not overtly hostile.
A man who carries himself like a leader steps forward and addresses them. "My name is Kematu." His pronounced cheekbones and dreadlock mohawk lend him a rather striking appearance.
"Good to meet you. I take it this is your woman?" Mull curtly replies. They set down their captive and he forces her to kneel upright while he tears away the burlap sack. Saadia blinks rapidly and shies away from the sudden sunlight. The lower half of her face is covered in a mask of dried blood.
"That appears to be her. Did she gave you some trouble?" Kematu mildly inquires.
"She did. I tried not to get too rough with her, but things happen." He gives Lydia a look and she blushes with embarrassment.
"Indeed they do." Kematu squats in front of Saadia and reaches out to seize hold of her chin. She spits a glob of bloody saliva onto the front of his robes and creatively curses him in Yoku. He doesn't flinch. "We meet at last, my dear lady."
"What have you done?" she shakily demands.
Mull belatedly realizes she's addressing him instead of this Kematu fellow. "Completed a job," he dispassionately replies. "And earned a reward, I hope."
"Your hope is well-placed."
Kematu nods at one of his subordinates and the man reaches into his robes before withdrawing a hefty coinpurse. He tosses it underhand and Mull swipes it out of the air with a satisfied grunt.
"You didn't really expect to manipulate people forever, did you?" Kematu asks their captive in Yoku. "Your luck had to run out sometime, Iman."
Before she can respond, the Redguard warrior summons a wispy orb of green light in his palm and fires it at Saadia. When it impacts against her chest, she instantly goes rigid and topples to the side without so much as a squeak. Mull recognizes it as a paralysis spell – high-level Alteration magic.
Damn, these Redguards aren't pushovers. Not just anyone can use magic like that.
"We'll take our friend here back to Hammerfell, where she will pay the price for her treason," Kematu declares. "Those who collaborate with the Thalmor will forever be enemies of our nation, whether they be Forebear or Crown."
"What will happen to her?" Lydia questions.
"Once she gets there, it will not be up to me to decide her fate. Now if that's all, I believe we'll be off. I'm eager to return to our homeland."
With that, he briskly nods and walks away with his subordinates in tow. A pair of them stop briefly to pick up Saadia – or Iman, Mull supposes – and soon enough the group of foreigners is gone from view.
"So she collaborated with the Thalmor," Mull ponders aloud. "No wonder they wanted to bag her so badly. Judging by her age, that must've been back during the Continuation War."
"You mean the Great War, my Thane?"
"Aye. But in Hammerfell, they like to call the last few years after the White-Gold Concordat 'the Continuation War.' Sounds fancier I guess. Anyways, it looks like our work here is done." He opens the coinpurse and peers at the contents. "That's a lot of gold," he whistles. "Hundreds of septims easily. These are big denominations."
"…I must admit that the idea of turning over that woman to people who may or may not be pursuing her for morally valid reasons doesn't quite sit right with me," Lydia says quietly. "Even if she was a shameless wench. What if they were lying to us just now?"
"The fact that you care at all means you've got more of a heart than I do," Mull responds as he reties the coinpurse and stuffs it into his satchel. "But you still did your job in spite of that. Judging by her behavior, I'm guessing Saadia or Iman or whatever the hell she's called wasn't some innocent little flower, but I could be wrong. Don't worry about her too much, Lydia. She did try to seduce and kill me. Poorly at that."
"…That's a good point," she grudgingly admits.
"This has been a profitable day and that's all that matters in my book. So… good work."
"Thank you, my Thane. Um, if it isn't too forward of me to ask…"
"Ask away. I'm in a good mood."
"Do you speak the language of Hammerfell? I heard you arguing with Saadia earlier but the words were unfamiliar to me."
"Aye, it's called Yoku. Most people in Hammerfell pick it up over time, even those of us who aren't Redguards."
"What other languages are you fluent in?"
"Why do you ask?"
"Simple curiosity. I wish to learn more about my Thane."
"Hmm. Just Nordic, Imperial Tamrielic, and Yoku. I'm not exactly a polyglot. What about you?"
"Nordic, Tamrielic, Breton, and Dark Elvish," Lydia counts on her fingers. She elaborates when he furrows his brow in confusion. "Breton is something of a literary language and Dark Elvish was taught to me by Irileth when I was a child."
"I see. Maybe that old greyskinned bitch is good for something after all."
"Excuse you!" Lydia indignantly exclaims. "I will not have you blatantly disrespecting my longtime mentor in such a crass manner! That was uncalled for!"
"There's nothing wrong with speaking the truth!" he defensively retorts.
"In this case, there is!"
"So you admit it's the truth."
"Ugh, no I certainly do not! I would appreciate it if you could kindly refrain from twisting my words!"
They argue all the way back to the barracks, where they find Torgen and Jenassa waiting for them. That evening, they invest some of their newly-gotten gold in another celebratory dinner at the White Whale. Seven hundred septims isn't bad at all for a single job. Not bad at all.
-x-
Mull awakens with a start.
His room is pitch-black and there's hardly any moonlight filtering through the window. He shivers in his furs. Dawn must not be too far off.
He blinks blearily and scans the room for anything out of the ordinary. The door is still closed. The nightstand is cluttered with his various everyday items. The wardrobe is untouched. The chair in the corner is in its usual spot. The roof hasn't collapsed. Nothing seems abnormal.
He shrugs and reaches over for a drink of water from a glass on his nightstand. The cool liquid is refreshing as it courses down his throat.
But as he slowly wakes up, he realizes there is something abnormal going on here. That creeping feeling of somebody watching him, following his every move, is hovering over him at this very moment. He's been experiencing that sensation out in the city streets for a few weeks now, but never while he's in the safety of the barracks.
Except now, that sensation is back – even here in his room where he should be completely alone.
He never ignores his instincts.
He springs to his feet on top of the bed and tears his knife from its sheath. He habitually sleeps with it tucked underneath his pillow whenever he's fortunate enough to be sleeping somewhere with pillows available.
He scans the room again, this time with much greater focus, and finally spots the abnormality. That chair in the corner isn't empty. He usually uses it to hang up his cloak, so nobody ever sits there.
Except for tonight, apparently. The silhouette of a person is lounging in it like they own the place.
Mull and the silhouette stare at each other in dead silence for an indeterminable amount of time. He waits for the dark figure to do something but they remain perfectly still.
Finally, he breaks the tense quiet. "Who are you?" he hoarsely whispers.
"…Call me Arcturus," the trespasser replies at length. "I'm here on behalf of the Empire." He's male by the sound of his voice. Cyrodiilic. His speech is cultured and refined. His words exude confidence.
Mull nervously licks his lips. "And what does the Empire want?"
The man stands and walks closer. Mull retreats and hops off the bed, placing it squarely between himself and the stranger while continuing to brandish his knife. He feels vaguely ridiculous wearing nothing but his underpants, but the situation is dire enough that he doesn't care in the slightest.
"Many things, most of which I am not at liberty to discuss in this setting. So instead, allow me to answer your question with one of my own. What do you think the Empire wants?"
"How in Oblivion would I know?" Mull angrily snaps. "Start talking straight or get the hell out of here. If you don't, you're a dead man. Mark my words."
"A dead man? That's a harsh thing to say." The stranger starts pacing back and forth with his hands clasped behind his back. "A different line of questioning then. During First Seed of this year, two Imperial agents inexplicably went missing in a rugged area of the Jerall Mountains called Steelhead Pass. Have you heard of it?"
"…I have."
"Would you consider yourself familiar with the terrain within and around that pass?"
"Not necessarily."
"Hmmm." The man halts and peers intently at Mull across the disheveled bed. "I will only asks this once, and I fully expect to receive an honest answer. What fate befell those men? Were you the one who killed them?"
Mull's throat tightens. It's obvious what this stranger is talking about, but he doesn't want to reveal any knowledge about that particular event quite yet. He could unintentionally incriminate himself. "What men? I don't know what in Shor's name you're babbling about."
The stranger raises a hand and wordlessly summons a glowing white point of radiance in his palm. Mull recognizes it as a magelight spell. The magelight rises to hover about two feet above the man's head, bathing the room in harsh luminescence. He positions it perfectly to cast his features in shadow. The only features Mull can discern from his obscured face are a broad clean-shaven chin and a pair of keen electric-blue eyes.
"They were two men, both Nords. We know they followed you into the pass from Ivarstead. They never emerged from the far side, but you on the other hand did. So tell me, what exactly happened to them?" A hint of anger bleeds through the stranger's suave tone.
Sounds like he already knows they're dead, so I might as well tell the truth. "I first noticed them tailing me shortly after I entered the pass. I led them on a merry chase through the mountains for a couple of days. Vampires attacked them on the road during the first night, but they managed to fight them off. Then I led them northwards through Orphan Rock Vale to a tunnel that cuts through the mountains and exits near Riverwood. There was a wispmother waiting for us at that exit. I was able to escape. They weren't, judging by the screams."
Arcturus glares at him for nearly half a minute before speaking again. "You aren't lying."
"You're right, I'm not, but how can you be so sure?"
"Magic." The man's eyes flash brightly for a split second.
"Wonderful," Mull mutters. "Did you find me here in Whiterun using magic too?"
"In part. Clairvoyance is a remarkable useful spell. Its utility is almost limitless."
"I'm sure it is. So do you care to tell me why those two friends of yours were tracking me down in the first place? I heard they were pestering the townspeople in Ivarstead for information about me nearly the entire winter."
"We'll get to that. But first, I'm sure you'd be interested to know that my agents and I have been investigating the newest thane of Whiterun for some weeks now. He's an upstart who seemingly appeared out of nowhere, doesn't have any connections to the city aristocracy, and rose to prominence in the Jarl's court practically overnight. He appears to have free access to Dragonsreach and holds private audiences with the Jarl, and he also enjoys the confidence of the Court Wizard – but paradoxically, he's a private citizen who lives in the lower districts and consorts with a band of mercenaries. Oddly enough, one of said mercenaries is the bastard daughter of the Jarl's brother. So many connections. So many threads woven haphazardly together. There aren't many people in Whiterun who raise red flags one after another like you do, Thane Mull."
"What does that mean?" he scoffs.
"It means you're a suspicious individual. Very suspicious."
"So you know who I am. Good for you."
"Indeed we do," the stranger sneers. "We know exactly who you are."
He retakes his seat in the chair, produces a sheaf of parchment from somewhere, and theatrically clears his throat.
"You are Mull, Thane of Whiterun, but your birth name is Ruair Gudarsson from what we've been able to gather. You're wanted in County Bruma and County Cheydinhal for, collectively: five counts of petty theft, eleven counts of petty larceny, three counts of disturbing the peace, one count of public indecency, three counts of arson, nine counts of robbery, seven counts of brigandage, four counts of marauding, eight counts of assault on a citizen of the Empire, two counts of assault on a legal alien resident of the Empire, six counts of assault on a public officer of the Empire, two counts of maiming or killing equine property of the Imperial Legion, three counts of murder of a citizen of the Empire, and two counts of murder of a public officer of the Empire. And that's only what we've been able to definitively attribute to you, and not Joren Stone-Breaker's gang of brigands in general. Or the Black Hills gang before that. Or the Grass Vipers in Colovia before that."
The man's expression remains steadfastly neutral, but Mull can tell from the way his eyes are glinting that he doesn't approve of what he just read aloud.
"I must say, you've put together quite an impressive criminal record over the years, Ruair Gudarsson. Documenting the full scope of your activities has required a much more dedicated investigation than one might normally expect. Even by the standards of the Penitus Oculatus." He shifts in his seat to reveal the crossguard of a sword sheathed at his side, which is engraved with the emblem of a red diamond overlayed with a silver eye.
Mull doesn't recognize the emblem, but he knows the name of the Penitus Oculatus well enough. He curses viciously and reaches for a pewter candle sconce to act as an impromptu shield. "Stay right there if you don't want to take an unplanned trip to Oblivion!" He doesn't seriously intend to fight, but he'll defend himself if need be. Killing an agent of the Penitus Oculatus – the dreaded Imperial intelligence apparatus – would be one of the worst possible outcomes of this encounter. If that were to happen, then they'd never stop coming after him.
Arcturus snidely smirks as he folds the parchment into neat squares. "Adopting a new name and retreating to a new province is not nearly enough to escape from the Inner Eyes of the Empire."
Mull spits out another curse. "Aye. I can see that, although I've got to wonder how someone like me managed to gain the attention of the godsdamn Penitus Oculatus. I never thought my life story was that interesting."
"How indeed?" The man chuckles humorlessly. "Your caution does you credit. You would already be dead in any other situation Ruair Gudarsson, but fortunately for you, it's now in the Empire's best interests to keep you alive – and even more than that, to ensure your safety against threats both without and within. You know precisely why that is, don't you?"
A frigid chill races down his spine.
The agent leans forward. "It's because you are the Dragonborn." The words roll richly from his tongue, like he's been waiting with anticipation for the right time to speak them aloud. "That is why we've sought you out. That is the answer to all your questions. But you already knew this."
Mull struggles to make his jaw work like its supposed to. "You buy into all that mythic hero business too, huh?" he forces out.
"Do you not?" Arcturus asks with what seems like genuine curiosity.
"…I'm still on the fence about it."
"Is that so? Then allow me to inform you that the time for fence-sitting is quickly approaching its end," the agent gravely states. "You made a pilgrimage upon the Seven Thousand Steps and received instruction from the Greybeards themselves. We have no definitive confirmation, but based on that fact alone I can only assume you're a Tongue of great aptitude. It's a forgone conclusion. You are the Dragonborn."
"Are you here to recruit me, or what? Because that sounded an awful lot like a recruitment pitch to me."
"Nothing so boorish as that. This was simply intended to be a meet and greet. A friendly little chat to get to know one another, as well as an opportunity for me to confirm a few things. Try not to overthink it, Ruair Gudarsson."
The man stands again and saunters over to the window. A casual wave of his hand and a scintillating gleam of rust-red magic causes the window to swing open under its own power.
"Don't worry, you aren't our enemy – quite the opposite in fact – but you should be aware that you'll be closely observed from this moment forward for the good of the Empire. Wherever you go, wherever you hide, you cannot escape from us. We see all."
The magic in his hands shifts to a different color, rich purple with flecks of scarlet, and the agent of the Penitus Oculatus vanishes from sight like he was never there.
"Until next time, Dragonborn."
A heartbeat later, the window closes of its own accord just as it opened and the summoned magelight winks out of existence, shrouding the room in darkness.
Mull breathes heavily while watching the window like a hawk, trying to ignore the fatigue left behind by his adrenaline as it steadily drains away. When he's pretty sure the trespasser is truly gone, he drops the candle sconce and heaves a relieved sigh.
Hoooooly shit. That was… Stuhn's balls, I don't know what to call it.
After belting on his sword, he performs a quick but thorough sweep of the entire barracks down to the dustiest corners, sits in the kitchen to keep an eye on things until the sun is starting to rise, and only then does he risk returning to his room. It's a miracle nobody was woken up by his yelling earlier, but for better or worse he still has the entire place to himself.
He sits down on his bed, tosses aside his unused sword, and groans with frustration. His life just got a whole lot more complicated. Again.
I think it's time for me to leave Whiterun for a little while.
