Chapter 5

Julia made her way back to Hjerim, worried and despondent. Perhaps coming to Windhelm with her father wasn't such a good idea, in hind sight. All she'd managed to do was upset people. Even Quintus Navale, for all that he'd given her some interesting information, was reluctant to speak further of the new Jarl. Was he that intimidating? Did he rule Windhelm and Eastmarch through fear? Why would the High King hand-pick a man like that to succeed Jarl Brunwulf Free-Winter – who by all accounts had been much loved by the people?

It was tempting to go speak with the court mage, Wuunferth the Unliving, about the matter, but that would require going to the Palace of the Kings to seek him out. If he's even still there, she realized. The last time she'd spoken with him, Jarl Brunwulf was still living here, and she had come with her mother. Besides, her father was at the Palace now, and he had explicitly stated he wished to speak with the Jarl alone, without her.

All she could do right now would be to return home and wait for her father.

He didn't return until much later in the afternoon, and seemed to be in good spirits. This only made Julia feel worse about the news she would have to tell him. As she expected, he didn't take it well.

"How could you, Julia?" he demanded, irritated. "I thought you'd be a bit more subtle about making inquiries!"

"I'm sorry, Dad," she moaned. "I know I blew it when Mr. Sadri practically kicked me out of his shop."

Marcus blew out an exasperated sigh and ran a hand through his graying hair. "I'll have to make this up to him somehow, I suppose," he fumed. "It was careless, Julia! Getting the information you need is not always straightforward, but it's not all cloak-and-dagger, either. And misrepresenting yourself to someone who knows and trusts me is going to make it that much more difficult to learn anything he might actually know on the subject."

"I shouldn't have come," she murmured miserably, hanging her head. She looked so abjectly sorry that Marcus relented, but only a little.

"You're new at this," he sighed. "Since the War, there hasn't been a need to involve you or your brother in the seedy underside of politics and the world. I'd hoped to spare you from that." He shrugged. "There's nothing we can do about that now. If you ever hope to follow in my footsteps and be a trouble-shooter, you're going to have to learn on your feet."

"What does that mean?"

"It means that until I'm sure you can handle yourself out there," he jerked his head towards the door, inferring all of Skyrim in general, "then you'll have to stick with me and do what I say. Watch and learn. I don't know if doing what I do is what you had in mind for your future, but you don't seem inclined to take over for your mother as Arch-Mage, either."

"It's not a hereditary title, Dad," she replied, with a wry expression. "And while I like magic, and use it, I don't know that I want to devote my entire life to it."

Marcus chuckled softly. "Don't let your mother hear you say that!"

He sat down at a nearby writing desk and pulled parchment, quill and ink out of their cubbyholes.

"Who are you writing to?" Julia asked.

"Revyn Sadri," her father replied. "I'm inviting him to dinner here tonight as a way of apologizing for your…over-zealous overtures."

Abashed, Julia nodded. "I'll get started on supper now, then," she replied.

Marcus sent Calder to deliver the invitation, and to wait for a reply, then wandered into the kitchen where Julia was working.

"Did you happen to learn anything interesting while you were out?" he asked, settling himself down at the kitchen table.

"One thing did stand out," Julia admitted, and told him what Quintus had mentioned about the East Empire Company.

"The EEC is considering moving?" Marcus mused, rubbing his beard. "Well, that is interesting. I haven't heard anything about this, and I doubt Ulfric or Elisif have, either."

"Mr. Navale said it was because Jarl Havoc wants the tariffs that are currently going to Solitude," she explained.

"And that's directly in opposition to the façade the Jarl put on for me earlier," Marcus said thoughtfully.

"What is he like, Dad?" Julia asked as she spatchcocked the game hens. "The Jarl, I mean?"

"Well, he's earned his moniker," Marcus said drily, "that's for sure. He's a very large man. He's taller than me by a few inches, and much…wider. But he's not soft; there's a lot of muscle on that frame. I wouldn't want to go toe-to-toe with him."

"Even with your Shouts and your magic?" Julia teased.

Marcus chuckled. "Even then. I know when not to pick a fight!" He thought back to his meeting with the Jarl. "He has almost as much charm as an Imperial," he noted. "He was a very agreeable fellow, and assured me he would send a letter to the High King within the week."

Julia stopped and frowned. "That doesn't seem to match up with the feeling I was getting from the people I spoke with."

"You told me they wouldn't answer your questions," Marcus pointed out.

"I know," she nodded, finishing the birds and placing them in the oven. "But I could feel they weren't happy. It was almost as if—" She paused, trying to recapture the sensation she'd felt earlier, talking with Quintus and Revyn. "It felt like they were scared of him," she concluded.

"I see," her father mused. He had learned over the years to never discount the 'feelings' his daughter sometimes had. She might never be the accomplished Seer her mother was, but Julia's flashes of insight had been borne out on too many occasions to ignore. "Well," he shrugged, "I guess we'll find out more if Revyn accepts my invitation."

"If he doesn't," Julia remarked drily, "we'll be eating game hen for the next two days!" Marcus chuckled at his daughter and left her to turn back to her work.

As it happened, in spite of Julia's blundering earlier that day, Revyn Sadri accepted Marcus' invitation, and appeared at their door at the appointed hour that evening. Calder had set the table for the four of them.

In most households, this would have raised an eyebrow. Servants, Housecarls and hired help rarely took their meals with their employers. But the Dragonborn was cut from a different cloth, and saw no need for such classism. Calder, like his other Housecarls and his Steward, were just extensions of his family. Marcus had taken Calder out with him on many occasions, when he had had tasks in the area, and found the red-haired Nord to be quiet, contemplative and closed of mouth. This last trait was the most important, as far as the Dragonborn was concerned, since much of his work had had to be kept strictly confidential, to avoid tipping off his many enemies.

Now, as he and Julia welcomed the shopkeeper into their home, Julia – after apologizing once more to the Dunmer – kept her silence and let her father do the talking while she 'watched and learned.'

"I'm so glad you decided to come tonight," Marcus smiled warmly. "Julia has been cooking all afternoon. I hope you enjoy game hen?"

"I haven't had it in quite a while, Dragonborn," Revyn replied, returning the smile. It was clear, however, that he was still on his guard. "Game hens tend to be a bit out of my budget."

"Then you'll love how Julia has prepared them," Marcus assured him, not missing the social cues. "Tamsyn taught her everything she knows about cooking, and she's prepared them in the Dunmer style."

"Then this will be a treat," Revyn said, thawing a little. "I look forward to it."

"Come, sit by the fire a bit before we eat," Marcus invited, gesturing towards the chairs drawn up for that purpose. Julia took this as her cue to make herself scarce, and headed back to the kitchen to assist Calder in bringing everything to the table in the main hall.

"I must say I'm flattered at the invitation, Dragonborn," Revyn was saying, a glass of wine in his hand. "It's entirely unnecessary, I assure you."

"I feel it is," Marcus said sincerely. "Julia overstepped her bounds, but she meant well. This is my way of saying I'm sorry we offended you. I value your friendship too much to have this come between us."

Revyn took a sip of wine and smiled. "'Value my friendship', is it?" he grinned impishly. "Is that why I haven't seen or heard from you in five years or more? Not since the last time you were in Windhelm, I believe."

"Yeah, I've been busy," Marcus admitted, sighing. "But that's not really any excuse. I should have made the time to stop by."

Revyn relented. "Well, it's water under the bridge, my friend," he said graciously. "So, now that I'm here, I'm sure you have all kinds of questions about the changes in Windhelm that your daughter wanted to find out for you."

Marcus gave a rueful chuckle. "It's on the top of my list," he acknowledged. "Julia says the people in town seem afraid of their Jarl, but I met with the man today, and he seems like a good guy."

Revyn nodded. "Yes, he certainly does seem that way, doesn't he?" He sipped his wine slowly, watching Marcus with his eyes that sparkled like rubies in the firelight.

"You think it's all a sham?"

Revyn put the glass down and pinned the Dragonborn down with those ruby-red eyes. "Don't you think it's rather mysterious how Jarl Brunwulf Free-Winter – a man beloved by most of the Dunmer in Windhelm; a man in the prime of his life, who rarely became ill – should suddenly die of a sickness no one can identify?" he asked. "And isn't it furthermore ironic that the man who replaces him was a complete unknown?"

"The High King appointed Jarl Havoc himself," Marcus pointed out.

"Yes," Revyn said with a self-satisfied smirk. "But how long had Ulfric known the man? Ask yourself that." He picked up his glass and took another sip. "This is really fine wine, by the way. I approve." He saluted Marcus.

"Dinner is served, my Thane," Calder announced.

When they were seated, and the first course served, Revyn Sadri turned to Julia and remarked, "You really did capture the nuances of Dunmer seasoning, my dear. I congratulate you; that was a fine game hen!"

"Thank you, Mr. Sadri," Julia smiled shyly, knowing she was finally forgiven for her earlier faux-pas.

Marcus had been turning over the intimations Revyn had made in his mind as they ate. "So, you're suggesting to me now," he ventured, "that Jarl Havoc inveigled his way to the throne? That he charmed Ulfric into appointing him? I can't imagine Wuunferth not picking up on that."

"Wuunferth was…ahem…encouraged to retire, right before Jarl Havoc was appointed," Revyn explained. "As was Jorleif, the former Steward."

"That's why I didn't see them there today," Marcus mused. "I take it the encouragement included references to their continued good health?"

"It was certainly implied," Revyn nodded, "but also never overtly stated. As for Jarl Havoc charming Ulfric, well…everyone likes to be flattered. It doesn't take magic to encourage people to see things your way, if you were born with a silver tongue. You're an Imperial, Marcus. You should know that."

Marcus allowed that point. "Well, it brings us to the ultimate question: why? Julia says there's speculation about the East Empire Company moving their headquarters here. What do you know of that?"

"I've heard that rumor, too," Revyn admitted. "And honestly, I can't say I'm against the idea. With their headquarters here, there would be more money in Windhelm's coffers – if it ever gets that far."

"Julia's contact suggested the same doubt," Marcus agreed, carefully not naming the source. "I'll admit, I wouldn't mind seeing the change either, if it meant some repairs and expansion could be made to the city. But if it's just going to line someone's pockets, I have a problem with that."

"Well, it wouldn't be the first time that funds were diverted to another recipient," Revyn shrugged. "All I know is that the Dunmer will once again be on the losing end. Several non-Nord families that had been here for generations have moved out."

"The Altmer lady that had the stall in the Stone Quarter wasn't there," Julia finally spoke up. "The lady at the produce stall just said she was gone, and made a very unkind remark about her. I thought it was just because she was an Altmer, and because of the War."

"Oh, no, child," Revyn answered, shaking his head. "It goes much deeper than that. Belyn Hlaalu, one of the staunchest supporters of change in Windhelm, pulled out last year. Sold his farm and went to Solstheim. The year before that, Malthyr Elenil, who used to work at the New Gnisis Cornerclub, had finally had enough and went back to Morrowind. It left Ambarys Rendar short-handed, and he can't find anyone who's willing to work on what he can afford to pay them. I'm afraid the Cornerclub will be the next casualty in this silent war against non-Nords."

Marcus frowned. "That's not good news," he muttered. "I liked the Cornerclub." Privately, he wondered if any of the money he habitually left at Hjerim had been invested in non-Nord enterprises. He'd have to speak with Tamsyn at the earliest opportunity.

"I could go on," Revyn scowled, "but it's only more of the same. Aval Atherton, who had the butcher's stall in the Stone Quarter, has had to relocate back here to the Grey Quarter. His rent for the space he used kept going up, and most Nords wouldn't buy from him." He gave Marcus a keen look. "There's a systematic oppression against the Dunmer, Khajiit and Argonians going on in Windhelm that's just barely below the surface. It didn't go away just because we won the Last Great War, and you don't have to scratch too deeply to find it. Talk to Ambarys, if you want the whole story. He's been on the receiving end of what happens when you don't pay to protect yourself."

Marcus sat up straighter. "Are you saying there's a protection racket going on in Windhelm?" he glowered.

"I'm not saying anything," Revyn dismissed. "Draw your own conclusions, Dragonborn, but Windhelm is not a healthy city. There's a lot of rot underneath it all."

Tavian sat at the counter of the Bannered Mare, nursing his mead, attempting to tune out Mikael, the bard, who was giving yet another tiresome iteration of Mogo's Mead.

"Mogo's mead, Mogo's mead, the only drink we'd e'er need," Mikael crooned. "Take a flask and take a seat, and drink thyself a sweety-treat!"

Ugh! Tavian thought sourly. If I have to hear that song one more time…

"You don't look happy, young man," Hulda said with some sympathy. "Got something on your mind?"

Tavian looked up into the innkeeper's understanding hazel eyes.

"It's nothing," he replied. "I'm just sort of at loose ends."

"If you're looking for work, I could always use some firewood," Hulda suggested.

"I am looking for work," Tavian admitted, "but I was thinking of something more…permanent. I don't think I'm cut out for the mercenary life."

"Hmm…" Hulda hummed. "I can understand your point. Well, if you're not interested in tracking down bounties, there's always the Legion," she continued. "I hear they're always looking for new recruits."

Tavian sat up straighter. "Really?" he asked, suddenly interested. He'd known most of his life that his father had been an auxiliary in the Legion, even achieving the rank of Legate. He had been a ranking officer in the Alliance army during the Last Great War, as well. With the War now over, however, the Alliance army had been disbanded, with most of its soldiers going back to the standing armies within their own Provinces. Since Skyrim had remained part of the Empire, the Legion was a permanent presence here.

He smiled. This was something he could do! And there would certainly be a better opportunity to rise through the ranks with the Legion than there might be within any Hold guard corps.

"Thanks, Hulda!" he grinned, slipping off the stool and tossing a few septims onto the counter for the drink and the advice.

"You're welcome," the Nord woman smiled, perplexed, but she pocketed the coins anyway.

Outside, Tavian wracked his brain, trying to remember if the Legion had any kind of representative here in Whiterun. Unable to recall, he approached the nearest guard and inquired.

"Legate Cipius is on permanent loan up at Dragonsreach," the man told him. "Are you thinking of joining?"

"Thanks!" Tavian called over his shoulder as he headed up the steps to the Wind District, taking them two at a time. He sprinted for the stairs that led to Dragonsreach, nearly colliding with the patriarch of the Battle-Born Clan, Idolaf, as he did so.

"Hey, watch it!" the older man growled, and Tavian called out an apology as he continued up the steps. "Damned kids," Idolaf grumbled.

Inside Dragonsreach, where he had been only a handful of times before, he slowed his steps and inquired of one of the castle guard where he might find the Legate. He was pointed towards the flight of stairs to the right of the Jarl's throne, leading up to the next level, where he had seldom been, except with his father. At the top, he peered around and found the older Imperial immediately, standing out from the rest of the inhabitants of Dragonsreach by virtue of his recognizable armor.

"Legate Cipius?" he asked breathlessly.

"Yes?" Quentin Cipius straightened and stared at the young man before him. He was tall, but not particularly fleshed out yet, indicating he was still young, though he had a stubble of rusty beard on his face, under a mop of red hair that was the color of smoldering embers. Steel-gray eyes were fixed on him, wide and hopeful. He was dressed in a simple tunic of green over a linen shirt, and brown leather pants with elk hide boots on his feet. "I'm Legate Cipius, young man. What is it you want?"

"I want to join the Legion," Tavian blurted.

Cipius had heard this line many times in the past. He rarely turned anyone away, but there was something about this boy that seemed familiar, as though he'd seen him before. Frowning in concentration, he recalled a much-younger looking version coming through Dragonsreach – in the company of the Dragonborn, himself!

"I know you," Cipius said slowly, giving himself time to think. "You're the Dragonborn's son, aren't you?"

Tavian gave an exasperated sigh. "Yes," he admitted. "He's my dad. But why should that make any difference? Dad is a Legate in the Legion, too. Why shouldn't I have that same chance?"

Because I don't want to have to answer to your parents if something should happen to you, Cipius thought privately. Though, to be fair, if the young man waiting in front of him was an adult by Skyrim standards, there wasn't much his parents could say against it. But Cipius didn't want to be the one to point that out to them.

"Are you certain of this?" Cipius asked. "Being a soldier isn't glamourous. It's a harsh life. It's hard, and it's dirty, and you'll have to do things that make you question your life choices. You'll see things that will make you want to puke your guts out, that will give you nightmares for the rest of your life. You'll have to obey orders without question." He leveled a keen glare at the young man, whose facial features resembled his Imperial father more than they did his mother's Breton heritage. "Do you think you can do this?" he demanded. "Because if I administer the Oath to you, you're in the Legion for life, and the only way you'll get out of it is either a dishonorable discharge, or death. Do you understand?"

Tavian nodded. "I understand."

Cipius frowned. "'I understand, sir,'" he intoned.

Tavian gulped. "I understand, sir," he repeated.

"Just one more question," Cipius said, cocking an eyebrow. "And this is to satisfy my personal curiosity, so don't feel obliged to answer: why? Why the Legion, and not follow in your father's footsteps to become the next Dragonborn?"

The younger man gave a snort. "Being Dragonborn isn't a hereditary title, sir," he replied, sounding – if he only knew it – very much like his mother at that moment. "The blessing is given to the individual by Akatosh himself. I might be able to learn to Shout, like my father can," he continued, keeping to himself the fact that he already did know a handful of Words, "but I don't have the dragon soul my Dad has. He's the Last Dragonborn for a reason." He shrugged to indicate he had accepted this fate. "But my Dad was also in the Legion, sir, and in that, at least, I can follow in his footsteps."

He didn't mention that it was his hope he could be assigned as needed in various places around Skyrim, to enable him to find the Word Walls more easily.

Cipius nodded. "It's a fair answer," he allowed. "Though if I remember correctly, your father was more of an auxiliary than a foot soldier. How old are you?" he asked now.

"Sixteen, sir,"

The Legate nodded again. At least he was old enough to make up his own mind. "Alright," he said finally. "I'll give you the Oath. But I'll leave it to you to inform your parents before you accept your first orders, understand?"

"Yes, sir!" Tavian grinned. And he repeated after the Legate:

"Upon my honor I do swear undying loyalty to the Emperor, Dante Greyshadow I...and unwavering obedience to the officers of his great Empire. May those above judge me, and those below take me, if I fail in my duty. Long live the Emperor! Long live the Empire!"

"Congratulations, son," Cipius smiled. "You're in the Legion now. Your first orders are to take leave of your parents, then proceed to our training center in Cyrodiil."

Tavian felt his heart plummet. "Uh…Cyrodiil, sir?" he stammered. "I thought I'd be assigned in Skyrim?"

"You're a raw recruit," the Legate frowned. "And the best training for you is in Cyrodiil. Report to Commander Tullius in the Imperial City no later than one week from today. I'll send your papers on to her by courier. Well?" he demanded, seeing the younger man hesitate.

Tavian saluted by bringing his right fist to his left shoulder. "Yes, sir!" he nodded. "I'll head to Cyrodiil as soon as possible."

Inside his mind was whirling. How was he supposed to find Word Walls if he was an entire Province away?

What have I gotten myself into? he wondered. But he knew it was already too late to back out.