Chapter 6

His parents hadn't been exactly happy with his decision, Tavian reflected. His father and Julia were in Windhelm when he returned to Heljarchen, and his mother tried 'nine ways to Sundas' to dissuade him of following the path he had chosen for himself. His father had been a bit more understanding, as Tamsyn had called him immediately, to enlist his support in keeping Tavian at home.

"I'm sorry, sweetheart," he'd said through the ear bud. "But if Tavian has already taken the Oath, there's nothing we can do. He's in the Legion, now."

"But he's just a boy!" Tamsyn exclaimed in anguish. "You're his father, Marcus! Do something! Call Commander Tullius. Tell her he's too young—"

"Tamsyn!" Marcus' voice cut in. "Stop it! He's not a boy. He's a man, now. I won't say I'm entirely happy about this decision – I wish you'd thought to ask me, son," he said, knowing Tavian was in the room with his mother, listening through the amplified volume Tamsyn had tapped in. "But now that it's done, all we can do is wish him luck."

Arch-Mage though she might be, she was still his mother. She had faced down draugr, Daedra and the Dominion itself, but this was her baby boy – and she would always think of him that way. She didn't even try to hide the tears coursing down her cheeks, but she nodded and tried to paste a smile on her face.

"When will you and Julia return?" she asked, after taking a deep breath to steady her voice.

"I'm not sure," her husband replied. "I've got more questions than answers at the moment. What did Kraldar say?"

"He'll send the letter," Tamsyn reported. "What about Idgrod and Lord Havoc?"

"Idgrod consulted her father, Aslfur, and they agreed we need to assure Ulfric they're on board with this. As for Jarl Havoc – I'm not sure. He says he will, but something's rotten in Denmark, here."

"Denmark?" Tavian murmured. "Where's that? I thought they went to Windhelm?"

"It's just an expression," Tamsyn whispered in a hurried aside. Raising her voice, she said, "You two be careful, then. Call me if you learn anything we need to be concerned about."

"Son," Marcus said over the ear bud, "I won't tell you to be careful; I know you'll be as careful as you can. Just remember your training with the Greybeards. I wish I could be there to see you off, but…well…"

"I understand, Dad," Tavian replied, suppressing his own disappointment. "I'll make you proud of me."

There was a moment's pause, before Marcus replied, so thickly that Tavian almost couldn't understand him. "I already am."

Two days later, Tavian crossed over the Pale Pass into Cyrodiil, and as the regiment he was with came down the road past Bruma, he could see, rising in the distance, the gleaming spire of the White Gold Tower. He gulped.

One of the soldiers near him, a young Nord with the typical blonde hair and blue eyes of his people, chuckled. "Never thought you'd see that, eh?"

Tavian shook his head. "No," he admitted. "I thought they'd send me somewhere in Skyrim."

The young Nord gave a rueful smile. "Aye, I thought that for myself," he snorted. "When we crossed the border back there, I think I was the first person in my family ever to go so far away from home. My name's Josef, by the way. Josef Arundson."

"Octavian," the red-haired lad replied. "But my friends call me 'Tavian'."

"Are we friends?" Josef queried, raising an eyebrow. It only lasted a few seconds before he guffawed. "Of course, we can be friends," he chuckled. "I'm just pulling your leg. No last name?" he asked, diffidently. "No family? You can tell me to mind my own business, you know. I won't be offended."

"I…kind of have a last name," Tavian admitted. "But I didn't want to announce it to everyone." He threw his eyes around the rest of the troops marching south with them. "I just want to be treated as myself."

"Really?" Josef breathed. "Is your father that well known?"

"You could say so," Tavian muttered. "Don't get me wrong. I love my dad, but I just want to start making a name for myself. Can we drop the subject?"

"Say no more," Josef nodded firmly. "Anyway, you could have knocked me over with a feather when the post captain told me I was going to Cyrodiil for training. No one in my family ever went that far before, even during the last war. Of course, my pa was a farmer, not a soldier, and my mother helped him…"

Tavian let Josef go on about his family, his numerous brothers and sisters, the family farm and all the details of his life to this point as they walked along. It helped pass the time, and the Legates didn't discourage talking in the ranks as they were not in a combat situation. Only now and then would one of them bark out, "Pay attention!" when the chatter grew too loud, and the voices would reduce to a hushed murmur for the next several miles.

They camped for the night at the crossing of the Silver Road where it joined the Red Ring Road, and the Legate in charge, an Imperial woman named Isabetta Colecci, climbed onto one of the wagons so they could see and hear her better.

"Tomorrow we will arrive at the Imperial City," she announced. "There, your training will truly begin. Some of you have already proven your skills with arms and armor. Forget them. We will strip you down and reforge you into an efficient, cohesive fighting force as befits the Imperial Legion. If you make it through your basic training, you will be assigned to a post somewhere within the Empire. If you don't, you will be sent home – if your stupidity hasn't cost you your life. The Legion rewards excellence, so if you do your duty well to the Emperor and the Empire, you will benefit from it."

She paused and waited for the murmurings among the crowd to subside.

"I will say this next part only once," she said in warning tones. "There is to be no fraternization in the ranks. I want this completely understood. Every man and woman here today deserves an equal chance to prove themselves worthy of being a soldier for the Emperor. I don't care if you prefer the intimate company of men, women or goats; while you are in the Legion – and especially while we are encamped – there will be no 'coddling', as I believe the term goes. If I find anyone breaking this rule, it will mean an immediate dishonorable discharge for all parties concerned. Is that understood?"

She glared around the entire camp to make certain her words had been heard and everyone nodded their affirmation.

"Your tour of duty will last for the next four years. After that time, should you decide you wish to make the Legion a career, you will be welcomed back. If you decide this is not the path for you, you will be discharged with honor – assuming you have not done anything stupid – and allowed to go your own way. Now, get some rest. We will be up with the sun, and we still have a long march to go to get to the City. I know it looks very close right now," she added with a slight smirk, "but the causeway into the City is on the west side. For those of you looking at the City now, that's on your right."

"Psst! Tavian!" Josef whispered. "Come on over here. This looks like a good spot." He pointed to a mostly flat area filled with hummocks of tall grasses, and Tavian picked up his gear. As they approached, however, a cluster of slightly older Nords and Imperials darted in and began pitching their tents.

"Hey!" Josef growled. "We saw this spot first!"

"But we're setting up first," the largest of them grinned with smile that was clearly a challenge.

"You tell 'em, Dirk!" one of the others crowed.

Tavian plucked at Josef's arm. "Come on," he said, "we don't want to start any trouble." Josef shrugged him off.

"There won't be any trouble," Dirk sneered. "First come, first served."

"It's not worth it," Tavian insisted as Josef seethed. He managed to pull his friend away, but Josef was clearly not happy.

"I hate bullies like that," the young Nord muttered. "Always thinking they can get what they want, just by taking it."

"Yeah, I hate them, too," Tavian commiserated. "But the last thing we need here is to get a reputation as trouble-makers. And that's what that Legate will see if we start a fight over a camping spot, understand?"

Josef blew out a sigh and deflated a little. "I understand," he said. "I just don't have to like it."

"Come on," Tavian said, "I think there's a better spot over this way, anyway." When they were out of earshot of Dirk and his friends, he murmured to Josef, "Besides, they've pitched their tents over a fire ants' nest. I noticed that when I got closer."

"Truly?" Josef asked, wide-eyed. He looked back where the older lads were still setting up, and turned back to Tavian with a loud guffaw. Tavian shushed him as best as he could, but Josef was enjoying the turn of events far too much.

Indeed, it wasn't very long after they had found a 'better spot' that sudden screams and yelps of pain issued from the direction of the bullies. Frantically they were slapping at themselves and howling like daedra. The entire encampment was roused, and the Legate hurried over to find out what was going on.

"Serves you right," she scowled, as the battlemages with her cast several frost-based spells to kill the ants, and the healers handed out potions to ease the pain. "Next time, watch where you pitch your tents."

Dirk seemed to be the worst off. Having been stung multiple times, the dark-haired Nord with the permanent sneer was covered in small, red blisters.

"I don't feel so good," he muttered, swaying dangerously.

"Take him to the healer's tent," Legate Colecci ordered, and two of her Lieutenants caught the young Nord before he fell over. They picked him up bodily and hauled him off.

"Any of the rest of you feel sick?" she demanded.

The others shook their heads.

"Good," she nodded. "Find another place to pitch your tents and get some sleep, if you can."

They did, but they had a miserable night, constantly scratching the bites they had suffered.

Tavian felt only the slightest bit sorry for them. He only knew about fire ants, and recognized their nest, because Lucia had pointed one out to him once when he had come down to Cyrodiil with his family to hear her perform for the Emperor.

"It's too cold for them in Skyrim," she explained, "so you'll only see them on this side of the Jeralls. They're nasty little bugs, so avoid them if you can."

In the morning, they learned that the leader of the aggressive bunch had been sent home. The healers advised it would take weeks to work the poison out of his system, and he would be in no condition to train.

"He's washed out," snorted one of the girls in the next tent over. She was a tall Nord with blue eyes and mousey-brown hair that she kept in a long braid down her back. Her features were typical for her race; she was pleasant-looking but Tavian would not have thought of her as a 'great beauty.' "Good riddance to him," the girl continued, packing up her belongings. "Dirk only joined the Legion because he thought he could get girls that way."

"How do you know that?" Tavian asked as they struck their tents.

"I heard him boasting yesterday while we marched," she shrugged. "He was already leering after every female who joined up, even me. But if I wanted a husband, I would have had one by now," she finished. There was a bitterness in her tone that Tavian didn't miss.

"Why did you join the Legion?" Tavian asked. "Most people will expect you to work twice as hard just to prove you can do everything a man can do. It's not fair, but that's the way it is. Why put yourself through that?"

She gave him a searching look. "You really mean that, don't you?" she asked.

"Of course, I do," he blinked, surprised. Josef said nothing, but watched the exchange with interest. "My sisters had to work really hard to prove they had what it took to succeed in their careers."

"What do your sisters do?" the Nord girl asked.

"Sofie is a healer," Tavian replied proudly. "And she's very good. Maybe not as good as Mom, but Mom's been at it longer. And Lucia became a bard, and was good enough to finally travel to the Imperial City to play for the emperor!"

The Nord girl's eyes widened in amazement. "Lucia?" she gasped. "You mean Lucia Dovahkiir? The Dragonborn's daughter? She's your sister?"

Tavian could have bitten his tongue out as Josef drew in a shocked breath beside him. Dammit! Why did I say that? he cursed himself.

I could say something about first impressions, came that dry voice in his mind, with more than a hint of amusement in the tone, but I don't think that would help you here. Don't be ashamed of your heritage, Dovahkiir. It is part of who you are, and you can't – and shouldn't want – to change that.

Slumping in defeat, he nodded. "Yeah," he sighed, "but please don't let that get around. I'm Tavian – Octavian – Dovahkiir, and the Dragonborn is my dad."

"I can see why you'd want to keep that a secret," the girl acknowledged. "A famous parent is almost certain to paint a target on your back. I'm Eva, by the way. Eva Strong-heart. And I promise I won't say anything to anyone, Tavian."

"You have my word of honor as well, my friend," Josef vowed. "Eva's right. There will be others in the Imperial City, older trainees than us, who might want you to prove your claim with your sword – or your voice!" He dropped his own voice lower and murmured, "Can you do it? You know…Shout?"

Eva stopped her packing to hear his answer, and Tavian knew he would have to be truthful with his two newfound friends.

"Yes," he admitted. "Just a few Words, though," he went on hurriedly. "And they're not as powerful as my dad's."

"Yet," Eva nodded sagely. "You're still young. I'll bet your father's Shouts weren't that powerful when he started learning to use the Voice."

I like this girl, the Dragon God of Time murmured. She has a good, sensible head on her shoulders.

He really wasn't helping, Tavian thought privately. "So how do you know about my sister?" he asked, desperately hoping to change the subject. He threw the last of his belongings into his pack and tied it off, hoisting it to his shoulders as he rose.

"I got to hear her when she came to Falkreath last year," Eva smiled, with a dreamy look in her eyes. "She was so good! I think I sang her rendition of Ivarstead Faire every day for a month after that." She giggled, and it was a very musical sound by itself. "My brother was practically begging me to sing something different!"

They talked in quiet voices the rest of the morning, marching together down the Red Ring Road towards the Imperial City. Tavian learned that Josef had come from Winterhold, and that his oldest sister was studying at the College. His younger brother worked in the mines, even at his young age, helping to sort through the ores that were dredged up from the depths. His mother was a seamstress, and managed with her limited funds to buy the armor Josef wore now. He carried his father's sword.

"I thought you said your dad was a farmer," Tavian pointed out.

"Well, of course he was," Josef said. "Does that mean a farmer can't have a sword?"

When Tavian blustered in protest, Josef relented. "It was really my grandfather's sword," he confided. "My Pa kept it clean, and in good condition, but I don't think he ever used it. My grandfather died in the battle at Skaven, in Hammerfell."

Tavian nodded. He remembered reading about the decisive battle where General Decianus halted the advance of Lady Arannelya's Dominion forces, preventing them from joining up with Lord Naarifin's army in Cyrodiil.

"You didn't answer my question earlier, Eva," Tavian ventured, as they drew closer to the causeway that led to the Imperial City. "Why did you join the Legion?"

Eva looked embarrassed. "I…I ran away from home," she admitted finally. "My parents had arranged a marriage for me that I didn't want."

"People still do that?" Tavian asked, shocked. His own upbringing, he knew, had been rather eclectic and extraordinary, by Skyrim standards, but he didn't realize just how different it had truly been.

Eva shrugged. "If your family has money, they do," she replied, with a return of that bitterness he'd heard before. "Anyway, I knew the Legion was recruiting, and that if I joined them, there would be a good chance I could be far away before they knew I was gone. It worked." She shrugged. "That's all behind me, now, though," she continued dismissively. "I'm not going back until I've proven I can make my own way in the world."

I really like this girl, that voice in his head murmured, and Tavian found himself agreeing with his mentor. He would have to make a concerted effort, however, not to like her too much.

I've got to keep this strictly on a friendship level, he told himself. Otherwise, I'm no better than Dirk or the rest of his cronies who think every girl wants a guy.

Five people gathered in a place northwest of Whiterun known as Silent Moons Camp. A former bandit lair, it had been cleared out by local Legion troops and had been abandoned for some time. Now it appeared to be repopulated, but as the occupants never waylaid anyone on the roads, they were left alone. On this night, they gathered at the top of the ruins in the forge room.

Garbed in gray robes, with hoods that covered their faces, it was obvious to the casual observer – had there been any – that these were all human, and all men. One of their number was distinguished from the rest only by the lighter shade of his robes.

"Thank you all for coming tonight," he said quietly. "I know how difficult it can be for you to get away from your daily duties. Were any of you followed?"

Murmurs of dissent rippled through the other four men.

"Good," their leader said. "I'm not ashamed of what we're doing, but I don't want anyone else to know, either. Our targets are well-known, and even though we have just cause, the Empire still frowns on what they consider to be 'murder.'" He made a noise of disgust through his hood. Had he not been wearing one, it was quite likely he would have spat. "Murder," he rumbled ominously. "How can it be murder when we're destroying abominations? When we're trying to protect our lives and our loved ones?"

The men muttered their agreement. "What is our plan, Grand Master?" one of them asked.

"We've been watching the Companions for several months, now," the Grand Master replied. "But we haven't had much success in tracking their movements. They don't keep to any kind of schedule, and the jobs they do require them to go all over Skyrim, so it's difficult to follow where they go. We are few in number right now, and we all have public lives we have to maintain. I have a few ideas, but I'd like to hear yours now."

"We could infiltrate them," one suggested.

"How?" a second questioned. "Could any of us qualify to become a Companion?"

There was silence, as they all tacitly understood the hurdle that could not be crossed.

"What if we took a job at Jorrvaskr, like what Tilma used to do before she died?" the third man proposed.

"You want to clean chamber pots and cook for that lot?" scoffed the first one. "No, thanks."

"What did you have in mind, Grand Master?" the second one asked.

The Grand Master bowed his head in thought. "They have promised to take any job that brings honor and glory to their organization," he mused. "As long as the payment is good. So, we give them an opportunity, and make sure the coin is tempting."

"Ambush them, you mean?" asked the fourth man, who had been quiet to this point. "How can we be sure the ones we want will be the ones who come?"

"I've thought about that," the Grand Master agreed. "I have no quarrel with most of them. So, we'll keep arranging 'jobs' for them until we get the ones we want. The only two we really want – the werewolves – are the only ones who need to die. And of the two of them, I would prefer it if the man dies first; Stendarr demands it!"

"How are we going to kill them?" the third man asked nervously. "What if they change, as soon as we ambush them?"

The four anonymous men in the chamber murmured apprehensively. A fully-morphed werewolf was not something to be confronted lightly.

The Grand Master nodded. "I've thought about that," he acknowledged. He moved to one side of the cave where a table had been set up. Laid upon it were several weapons made of silver; a mace, a sword, two axes, and a quiver full of silver-tipped arrows next to a bow of the same material.

"I've gone to the places where the former Silver Hand group used to hide out," he explained. "There wasn't much left behind, but I did find these things. They will help. I can't ask the Gray-Manes or Adrienne to make silver weapons for us. It would arouse too much suspicion. If any of you can work with the metal or forge your own weapons, it would be better to make our own."

"There's a legend about this forge, too," the fourth man volunteered. "Anything made here will strike like fire when the moons are in the sky."

"That's another reason I chose this place," their leader nodded. "Anything that will give us an edge against these abominations. But in particular, I want those two Companions, Aela and Alesan, dead at my feet. The Silver Hand will be reborn in us. We owe it to Skyrim to cleanse the land of their filth."

Ambarys Rendar looked up from the bar he had scrubbed for the tenth time that day and blew out a sigh. "It looks like another slow day," he observed to no one. He was alone in the New Gnisis Cornerclub, and had been spending most of his days alone since Malthyr left two years ago, claiming he had no desire to stay in Windhelm now that Brunwulf Free-Winter was gone.

"That man was the only hope we had of making a better life for ourselves here," he'd said. "I'm going back where I belong."

"You're just giving up, then?" Ambarys had asked. "Just like that? You're giving the Nords what they want!"

"I'm getting out now before I become another victim of Nord prejudice," Malthyr stated. "And if you had any sense, Ambarys, you'd get out, too. The Nords don't want us here."

"I'm staying," Ambarys had said, stubbornly. Now, he wondered if perhaps Malthyr had the right idea after all. But he'd dug his heels in and stayed, for spite if for no other reason, refusing to be intimidated even when the taxes increased and suspicious Nords began coming around strongly hinting that he'd be left alone if he paid them to 'protect' him. He had complied, rather than be run out of business, but he wondered how long he be able to keep that up.

The bell over the door rang as it opened, and an older Imperial walked in with a younger Breton girl in tow.

"Dragonborn!" Ambarys exclaimed, delighted to recognize the man. He took his apron off and threw it on the counter, coming around to shake hands with Marcus.

Grinning, Marcus took Ambarys' hand, then pulled him in for a pounding on the back.

"Ambarys, my old friend! It's good to see you!" he smiled. "May I introduce my daughter, Julia? I'm showing her around town."

Ambarys shook hands with Julia. "Delighted to meet you, my dear," he smiled. "You take after your mother, then? I don't see much of your father in you, except for your raven hair. I remember a time, Dragonborn, when yours was as dark. Doesn't seem all that long ago, though."

"You're a Dunmer, Ambarys," Marcus chuckled. "Of course, it wouldn't seem that long ago."

"Have you checked in with Revyn lately?" Ambarys asked as he invited them to sit anywhere. He swiftly brought three mugs over and a bottle. "Sujamma?" he asked.

"Not for me, thanks," Julia excused herself. "I'm not really fond of it."

"Oh," Ambarys blinked. "That's alright then," he continued, returning to the counter and grabbing a different bottle off the shelf underneath. "Some spiced wine for my lady, then." He winked at Julia. "I know your mother always liked that!"

Julia giggled and nodded. They waited until he had poured the drinks and sat down with them before resuming conversation.

"We had dinner with Revyn last night," Marcus said as he sipped his sujamma. "He caught me up on all the gossip in Windhelm."

Ambarys nodded sourly. "I'll just bet he did," he replied. "And have you met our new Jarl?"

"Yesterday," Marcus told him. "He put on all the charm for my benefit, but from what Revyn told me, it's only skin-deep. There's something I wanted to ask you, though," he continued. "Something important."

"Anything, Marcus," Ambarys agreed instantly. "You know I'll always be straight with you."

"You know that I invest in businesses in any town where I have a home," Marcus began. "And I happen to own Hjerim, here in Windhelm. I spoke with my wife this morning – I won't say how I managed that, because it's classified – but she says that part of that investment money goes to places like Sadri's Used Wares, and the New Gnisis Cornerclub. Yet I'm not seeing any improvements in the Grey Quarter. Where is that money going?"

It was an honest question, from someone with a vested interest in the improvements and well-being of the lives of the citizenry, yet Ambarys was reluctant to answer. Part of his 'protection' included not mentioning it to anyone. And a lot of the money he had received from the Dragonborn's investments went to insure he was still on the right side of the pavement.

"I wish I could tell you, Marcus," he shrugged, helplessly. "I really do, but I can't."

"Hmm," Marcus mused. "This wouldn't happen to have any connection to your continued health, would it?" he asked shrewdly.

"I…I really can't say," Ambarys shook his head, but his eyes pleaded with the Dragonborn to understand. He did.

"You don't have to," he told the agitated Dunmer. "I think I can figure it out on my own." He paused. "How often would you say you get Nord patrons in here?" he asked now, watching Ambarys carefully, as the mer took a long drink of his sujamma.

"Not often," the innkeeper replied, setting his mug down. But Marcus noticed the mer's hands were shaking. "Maybe once a month or so. In fact, the last time any Nords came in here was about four weeks ago."

Marcus nodded. "Thanks, Ambarys. Great sujamma, by the way," he added, draining his cup. "Come on, Julia," he said to his daughter, "we've taken enough of Ambarys' time, just catching up as old friends do." He smiled as he palmed a small pouch of septims to the mer. "For the drinks," he winked. "I'll see you again soon."

"You're always welcome here, Dragonborn." Ambarys gave a genuine smile along with a sigh of relief. From the heft of the pouch, he could tell it would be enough to cover the next 'protection' payment. And if he knew Marcus – as he was certain he did – he might not even have to pay this month.

Julia waited until they returned to Hjerim before she burst out with her questions.

"So, what was that all about, Dad?" she asked. "What exactly was going on?"

"Let's see if you can figure it out, honey," he suggested, sitting down on a bench nearby and patting the seat beside him.

She plunked herself down next to him and frowned in thought.

"Well, Mr. Sadri hinted at something you called a 'protection racket'," she mused. "But I don't understand what that is."

Marcus nodded. "Quite simply, it's where a bunch of thugs go in to a business and demand money from the owner. If he doesn't pay up, they trash his place and beat him up, making him more inclined to pay the money the next time they demand it. In essence, he's being forced to pay to 'protect' himself from something bad that he knows will happen if he doesn't pay."

Julia's face cleared in understanding. "You said you invest in the businesses here," she pointed out.

"I invest in each Hold and city where we have homes," her father pointed out. "All those years I spent going through ruins and barrows and caves, looking for Word Walls and trying to get strong enough to do what I was brought here to do ended up giving me quite a bit of wealth. And wealth is better shared. If one person hoards everything they've earned – or stolen – they become quite wealthy—"

"And wealth equals power," Julia supplied.

"In a sense, yes," her father agreed. "Many people feel that if they have money, they're more powerful than people who don't have it. But hoarded wealth helps no one. And it doesn't grow on its own. Which is why I invest in the mines, the shops, the farms…anyone who needs a few coins to make their lives easier. If I get a return on that investment, that's a bonus. And the people who receive that money use it to buy things to make their lives better, giving it to someone else in exchange for things they can't make on their own."

"And those people use that same coin, in turn, to make their lives better," Julia nodded. "I get it now."

"Right," Marcus smiled. "But sometimes you get people who want the money without having to work for it. They feel they're entitled to have it, because they're older, or stronger, or more powerful than the person who has the resources they want. In order to get that money, or that resource, from the person who has it, they send in beefy thugs who have no qualms about beating people up when mere intimidation doesn't work."

"So," Julia frowned again, "how can you find out who those people are? Mr. Rendar wouldn't tell you, but I could feel how terrified he was."

"He already told me," Marcus grinned. He gave his daughter a minute to figure it out on her own. And it took that minute before her face cleared.

"You asked him how often he got Nord customers," she realized. "Mr. Sadri said the Nords wouldn't buy from the butcher because he was a Dunmer. So why would a Nord go to a Dunmer tavern for food or drinks?"

Marcus patted her on the back. "Exactly," he praised, proud of her. "And we know the last time the thugs were there was about four weeks ago, which means, they should be showing up any day now."

"How will you catch them?" Julia asked, eagerly.

"We are going to catch them," he told her, completely serious. "I have an idea that might just work."