Chapter 7

It had been almost a week, and Julia was certain she never wanted to wait on drunken dock workers again. She was working for Ambarys Rendar at the Cornerclub each evening, having assisted him with the cooking during the day. Word was spreading quickly about the improvement of the Cornerclub's menu, and even some of the more liberal minded Nords were starting to come back. The first couple of nights were really the worst for Julia, as she had never done work like this in her life.

It's like keeping house, but ten times as hard, she thought. She cooked, she cleaned, she swept and washed up. Ambarys tended the bar and tried his best to keep the rowdier patrons to one side of the room where he would serve them himself. The only things that made the entire situation bearable was knowing that she was helping to catch the men who were threatening Ambarys, and that her father was just upstairs, watching and listening through the gaps in the floorboards.

Ambarys had been embarrassed about the condition of the Cornerclub. "I've been meaning to get that repaired," he admitted. "Among others things, that is. But unfortunately, this whole 'protection' thing has taken any nest egg I built up to make any improvements around here."

Marcus had patted his shoulder and told him not to worry about it. His daughter's safety was his main concern, as well as catching the hoods responsible for terrorizing the Grey Quarter. Ambarys had told him that he wasn't the only business they had threatened. "It's one of the reasons Belyn Hlaalu sold his farm and pulled out," he'd informed them. "It's why Luaffyn no longer plays at the Candlehearth."

"Revyn Sadri didn't seem to be a target," Marcus mused. "Why is that?"

"His sister, Idesa, works for the Cruel-Sea family," Ambarys pointed out. "I don't believe they're involved in this, but if Idesa's brother was being threatened, the Cruel-Seas would spare no expense to find out who was behind it. They're one of the few families in Windhelm that have no problem with the races getting along."

As frustrating as it was to watch his daughter put herself in such a vulnerable position, Marcus was proud of how she was handling herself. Most of the patrons were really very nice people, who just wanted a meal or a drink – or both – after a long day of work. There were only a few who could not be trusted within arm's reach of the young Breton girl, and those few were slowly beginning to realize that the owner of the establishment would not tolerate any form of familiarity with the barmaid.

But after a week, even Ambarys was having doubts.

"Not like I want to see them again," he murmured to Julia during a lull in business, "but those thugs are overdue. I suppose it's too much to hope that they've gone and gotten themselves killed off."

"If they do show up, we'll be ready for them," the Breton girl assured him.

"I just hope your father can get down here in a hurry if trouble starts," Ambarys worried. "I'm no spring chicken, and neither is he anymore."

"Don't worry about Dad," Julia said staunchly. "He'll be here before you know it if things get rough!"

For her part, Julia knew it was a sound plan, though part of her quailed at the thought of her father not being in the same room with her.

You wanted to prove you can deal with whatever gets thrown at you, she scolded herself. This is part of it. Just take a deep breath and do it!

They stuck to this plan for the next few nights, and on a very busy Fredas evening, Julia noticed Ambarys go suddenly still as a group of men entered the Cornerclub. The smile vanished from his face, and every patron in the place turned to look at the four Nords in the doorway.

"I'd better go," Aval Atherton murmured. He placed a few septims for his drink on the counter and slid off the stool, hugging the walls until he reached the door. There, he was stuck, as the Nords didn't seem inclined to come in any further. The small crowd of people still at the tables also rose, nervously, looking for a way out. The bald man who seemed to be the leader made a gesture with his head, and he and his companions stepped aside, allowing the patrons to exit, leaving the Cornerclub empty except for Julia, Ambarys, and the four thugs.

And my father, upstairs, Julia thought, pulling at her ear in an apparent nervous gesture, but actually tapping her ear bud, and concentrating on her father.

"I see business has picked up for you, Ambarys," the spokesman for the group observed smoothly. His eyes flicked over to Julia. "Ahh…and you've done a bit of decorating, too, I see."

"Julia is only here temporarily, Simon," Ambarys said stiffly. "She's just helping me out. Leave her out of this."

Simon moved further into the room, and the three men with him shuffled forward as well.

"Aww…helping out poor, old, Ambarys, are you, sweetling?" Simon oozed. "That's very nice of you. But you know, helping him out means you need to be nice to the customers, right?" He pulled a chair out from one of the tables as his cronies sniggered. One of them hovered behind him while a second moved closer to the bar where Ambarys waited, keeping the heavy wooden counter between the thugs and himself. Simon sat down and patted his lap. "C'mon over here, honey, and start makin' nice with the customer."

Julia wanted to gag. Simon was more than twice her age; he was fat, balding and smelled as though the last time he had bathed had been the last time it had rained. Some of his teeth were blackened and others were missing.

The thought flitted through her mind that she could pretend to give in and hope to give Ambarys and her father a chance to catch them off guard. But the other three men with Simon were large and muscular, and were keeping a very close eye on the room and everyone in it, and especially on the front door.

"I said leave her alone, Simon," Ambarys scowled, with a bit more force. "Julia, get in the back."

"Stay where you are," Simon warned, frowning. "Ambarys, you should know better than to get in the way of what I want." His eyes turned back to Julia. "I said, get over here, wench!"

It was on the tip of her tongue to make a scathing comment, but she held her temper and her tongue. She backed up to retreat to the stockroom and kitchen in the rear of the building, but the thug who had been standing behind Simon's chair moved more quickly than she expected and slipped behind her. She slammed into the solid wall that was his chest. He grabbed her upper arms on both sides and gave a nasty chuckle. Julia refused to be intimidated.

"If you know what's good for you," she said evenly, more angry than scared, "you'll let me go."

He laughed cruelly and pushed her forward. Swiftly, before he realized what she was doing, Julia slammed her heel down on his instep. He howled and let go of her, bending slightly forward to reach for his injured foot. Quickly, she whirled in place and brought her knee up sharply into his groin area, stepping to one side as he buckled to his knees. Her elbow followed, connecting with his neck, and he slumped, prone on the floor.

One of the men by the bar moved towards her, but the other attempted to jump over the bar to apprehend Ambarys. The innkeeper grabbed a broom leaning against the wall behind him and bashed it over the thug's head and the man pancaked on the bar. Ambarys leveled the broom handle like a pool cue and gave a vicious jab to the brute's temple. There was a groan, and the ruffian rolled to one side, sliding off the bar to lie still on the floor.

"Hey!" Simon yelled, rising. He drew his sword and headed for Ambarys. The third hoodlum made a grab for Julia, who suddenly wasn't where she'd been a moment before. She ducked under his arms and came up behind him, then turned and struck out in a series of jabs that targeted his central nervous system. He went rigid and toppled over.

"TIID KLO UL!"

There was a sudden blur of movement that whirled around the room, faster than Simon could track it, and in the next moment, he found himself roughly shoved back down in the chair. He tried to move, but realized he had been securely tied with his hands behind his back.

The blur resolved itself into a tall, glowering Imperial with short gray hair and beard, and cold steel eyes. His mouth was compressed to a thin line, and Simon realized with horror he knew who this man was. His bowels emptied themselves unbidden.

"Eww," Julia reacted, wrinkling her nose. "Disgusting!" She quickly found more rope and worked to secure the other three hoodlums.

"I think that word fits him quite nicely, daughter-of-mine," Marcus agreed. "He is a disgusting specimen of humanity."

Simon had never been afraid of very much in his life; he had always had bigger, tougher people work for him to protect him from anything that might cause him injury. He was terrified now. He had made lecherous overtures to the Dragonborn's daughter?

I'm fucked! was all that went through his head.

"Now," the Dragonborn smiled – and it wasn't a pleasant one, "you're going to tell me who you work for, and where the money is going."

"I…I can't…D-Dragonborn," Simon stammered. "I swear to you, he'll kill me if I tell you!"

"And I'll kill you if you don't," Marcus said ominously. "Take your pick, but I wouldn't debate the point too long. My patience is wearing thin."

Simon stared at him, helplessly. His mouth worked, but inside his mind was a caged skeever, looking for a way to escape. And at the moment, there was no way except through the Dragonborn.

Marcus sighed and cracked his knuckles. "You've been extracting money from business owners in whom I've invested," he informed the Nord. "When you steal from them, you steal from me. You don't steal from a dragon. We don't like it."

Simon was actually blubbering incoherently now. He couldn't have made a clear answer if he'd wanted to – and he very much didn't want to.

"Do you have any idea what it feels like to be Shouted to death?" Marcus asked in an offhand manner.

"Please!" Simon begged, more terrified of the Dragonborn now, than in his mysterious employer. "I'll tell you!Don't hurt me!"

"I'm waiting," Marcus replied, waving his hand for Simon to proceed. "Though I should warn you my daughter is an accomplished Seer. She'll know if you lie to me. Don't lie to me."

Julia raised her chin a little and narrowed her eyes at Simon. What her father had stated wasn't exactly true. She couldn't always tell when someone withheld the truth. But Simon didn't need to know that little detail.

"I don't know his name," Simon confessed. "He's a powerful Nord, I can tell you that much, and he hates anyone who isn't a Nord."

"You just described ninety percent of the population of Windhelm," Ambarys remarked drily, while Marcus frowned.

"Is he working for the Jarl?" Marcus demanded. "Does the money go into Havoc's pockets?"

"The Jarl doesn't know," Simon replied. "But I know he's not overly fond of the other races, either. He kept quiet about that before Free-Winter was…I mean, before Free-Winter died. It was only after he was confirmed as Jarl that he began letting his true feelings slip."

"What were you about to say?" Marcus scowled. "That Jarl Brunwulf was…what? Are you suggesting he didn't die of an illness, but of something else?"

"I only know what some have said," Simon pleaded. "I don't know if it's true. Some have whispered that Free-Winter was murdered. Still others have said that Free-Winter didn't die, but is being held captive somewhere away from Windhelm. That Jarl Havoc was maneuvered into place because he's easy to flatter and already has a low opinion of non-Nords."

"If Jarl Brunwulf didn't die, then who was the body we saw consigned to the funeral pyre?" Ambarys demanded. His mind was still reeling with how quickly everything resolved. He never imagined the Dragonborn could move so fast! And he was fast revising his opinion about Julia being a helpless young girl. There was nothing helpless about her!

"I don't know!" babbled the bald man. "Please! Let me go! I'll leave Windhelm! I promise I'll never come back!"

"Not quite yet," Marcus intoned. "I want to know where the money is that you've been squeezing out of the poor Dunmer in Windhelm. If the Jarl knows nothing about your petty scheme, is it going to this mysterious patron of yours?"

"No," Simon replied, hanging his head. "That was on me. A side job to intimidate the Dunmer and get them to leave. That was all I was told to do. How I did it was up to me."

"And the Khajiit and Argonians, as well?" Ambarys demanded. Simon nodded.

"So…the money," Marcus reminded him. "Where is it?"

"Gone," Simon admitted. "Me 'n the boys spent it on stuff. Mostly wenches and high livin'. I've told ya everything I know, I promise! Please, I just want to get out of Windhelm and start someplace else."

Marcus didn't realize he was making a dangerous rumbling sound deep in his throat until he saw Simon's eyes widened in renewed fear, and Julia put her hand on her father's arm.

"You will not start someplace else," she warned Simon, staring into his pale, bloodshot eyes. "You are going to devote the rest of your life helping people," she intoned. Her eyes glowed as she spoke, though only Simon could see it, turned away from her father and Ambarys as she was. "You will never knowingly cause harm to anyone else, ever again, understand?"

"I…under…stand…" Simon said slowly, as if from a long distance. He shook his head to clear it, and stared at her with an expression that bordered on fear mixed with awe.

"Go ahead and untie him, Dad," she told her father.

"You're sure?" he frowned.

Julia nodded. "He's going to rethink his life's choices," she assured him. The three other thugs were groaning, and together Marcus and Ambarys hauled them to their feet and threw them out onto the broad front porch. One almost rolled off the ledge. Simon, after being freed, staggered after them, holding his head as if he'd just woken with a terrible migraine. They went back inside where Julia was waiting for them.

"What did you do to him?" Marcus murmured as Ambarys retreated to the back to get a bucket and a mop to clean the floor.

"Nothing much," Julia shrugged. "Grandpa called it 'exerting influence'. I guess a better way is saying I overpowered his base nature. He's spent most of his life doing bad things and thinking that was alright. I forced him to see things another way."

"How long does that usually last?"

Julia sighed. "I don't know," she said honestly. "I've never really had a chance to use it before."

Marcus chuckled. "Well, if it gets him and his cronies out of Windhelm, I'll count that as a win. Was he was telling us everything he knows?" he asked, knowing Julia's gift. "Could you sense if he was withholding information?"

"He was an open book, Dad," she chuckled. "You had him so scared he'll be dreaming of dragons coming after him when he sleeps." She sobered. "I did get a brief flash, though. An image of a figure…tall and thin, with long wild hair the color of snow. I couldn't see the face. I think that might be his patron."

They broke off as Ambarys returned with his cleaning supplies.

"Think that's the last we'll see of him?" the Dunmer innkeeper worried.

"I'm pretty confident it is," Julia assured him.

"I'm sorry about the money you got taken for, Ambarys," Marcus said. "It doesn't look like we're going to be able to recover it."

"That's not your fault, Dragonborn," the mer was hasty to point out.

"No," Marcus agreed, "but I wish you'd thought to send me a letter or something. I could have looked into it before now."

Ambarys looked embarrassed. "I didn't like to demand too much of you, Marcus," he admitted. "I mean, you're the hero of Skyrim, of all Tamriel. You have a lot of people making demands on you. I didn't want to add to the burden."

Marcus laid a hand on the Dunmer's shoulder and gave him an affectionate shake. "That's what I'm here for," he insisted. "That's what I do. Don't ever hesitate to call me if you need me."

"What about that mysterious fellow behind Simon and his thugs?" Ambarys queried. "If that man really is trying to empty Windhelm of all non-Nords, this won't stop him."

"That's something else I'm going to get to the bottom of," Marcus promised. "He sounds like a dangerous person; he's an unknown quantity, so Julia, I'm afraid you'd better return to Heljarchen and let me take it from here."

"What?" Julia was stunned. "Dad, you can't be serious! You said you were going to teach me to do what you do. You said I had to stick close to you, to watch and learn. I can't do that if you're here and I'm in the Pale!"

"I don't want you to get hurt, sweetheart," he began, but Julia's green eyes flashed, so like her mother's that Marcus was taken aback by their ferocity.

"And who's going to watch your back, huh?" she demanded.

"I think you're going to lose this one, Dragonborn," Ambarys smirked. "You should know better than to argue with a Breton woman when her ire is up."

"After twenty years," Marcus sighed with resignation, "you'd think I'd have learned by now."

"I don't think I'm going to get used to this armor," Josef complained. "It doesn't fit as well as my old armor does."

"We're not in the auxiliary force," Tavian reminded him, fastening the straps of his own cuirass. "We can't wear whatever we like. Besides, isn't this a bit better than your old armor?"

"Maybe," Josef frowned doubtfully, unwilling to concede the point. "But what good is it if I can't move in it?"

"You'll get used to it," Tavian assured him.

They were in the barracks assigned to their contubernium. A 'contubernium', Tavian learned, was a group of eight soldiers who ate, slept, lived and trained together to form a cohesive unit. In the barracks with them were six other new recruits, including Eva, though she was in a separate room of the barracks with three other girls. The two other newcomers on their side of the dividing wall were a Breton boy named Dorian Sinclaire barely old enough to grow his first chin hairs, and an Argonian named simply Rasha.

"It's longer in Argonian," he had grinned when they introduced themselves the night before, "but you probably won't pronounce it properly."

The girls were all Imperial, except for Eva, and already seemed to know each other.

"We all come from Cheydinhall," Narina told them. "We grew up together. It was Selvanna's idea to enlist."

"It seemed like a way to earn a living and see something of Tamriel," Selvanna shrugged. "None of us are really interested in settling down and raising families right now, except maybe for Gertrude."

"There's nothing wrong with getting married and having babies," Gertrude said primly. "It just doesn't have to be right now."

"We're lucky our parents are understanding about it," Narina said. "My family has a history of Legionnaires going back to the Third Era, and Gertrude's grandmother fought in the Great War, nearly fifty years ago."

"Lights out in five minutes," a Prefect barked through their door, and any other conversations would have to wait for another time, as the young men went to their side of the barracks and the women went to theirs.

Over the next several weeks, each of them was put through a rigorous regimen of training that left them too exhausted at the end of the day to even entertain the idea of fraternization, if any of them had been so inclined. Dorian struggled, and Tavian and Josef tried to help him as much as they could without seeming to do so. The Prefect in charge of their contubernium was a large, sturdily-built Nord woman by the name of Agnete. She was in her late twenties, by some accounts, and she brooked no foolishness in the ranks. Agnete was in charge of training four other contuberniums in addition to theirs, putting nearly fifty recruits under her command.

When she caught Josef and Tavian helping Dorian, she punished all three of them with kitchen duty, peeling vegetables for the troops.

"You aren't here to help each other," she growled. "You can barely help yourselves. If one of you washes out, that's too bad. It's how we get rid of the ones who can't make it. So, either get good, or get out. There's no in between."

"But sir," Tavian protested, in spite of Rasha desperately trying to catch his eye by shaking his head and hissing quietly. "Aren't we supposed to have each other's backs out there, if we actually get into combat?"

"Extra duty for you, Dovahkiir," she sneered, making his name sound like an insult. "One of the first things you maggots will learn is not to question authority. You will do what we say, when we say to do it. Is that understood?"

"Sir, yes, sir!" the group responded, as loudly and as emphatically as they could. But several pitying glances were thrown Tavian's way.

The 'extra duty' involved digging privy holes for the camp. With so many people, and the training camp having been established in one location for such a long time, privies needed occasionally to be limed and filled in, and new ones needed to be excavated in a different location. It was dirty, thankless work and Tavian hated it. He was required to dig a hole straight down twice his height in depth, and had to pull himself out by climbing hand-over-hand up a rope sent down by his partner, who had also found himself – or herself – on 'extra duty'.

On this occasion, his partner was one of Dirk's friends, who had been assigned extra duty for getting involved in a fist fight. The reasons were unclear, but Tavian was certain Roald had started it. They were supposed to take turns, but after they had both dug down about ten feet, Roald claimed as Tavian emerged that he'd hurt his hand.

"I can't dig anymore, Dragon Baby," he said, utilizing the nickname that had quickly filtered around the camp, once most knew who Tavian was. "You'll have to dig for both of us."

"I know a little healing," Tavian offered, trying not to let Roald's jibe bother him. "I can fix it up for you."

"Are you kidding me?" Roald sneered. "I wouldn't let a lizard like you lay hands on me. I'll go to the healer's tent. I'll send someone back to help you."

Tavian strongly doubted this would happen, but Roald was clearly the larger and stronger of the two of them, and Tavian had no desire to add to his 'extra duty' by getting into a fight.

"Fine," he muttered. "Just have them fix your hand and get back here as soon as you can."

Roald gave a smug sneer and hurried off. Tavian watched him go, and made sure his rope was secured to a nearby tree before descending to resume the excavation. He'd only been working a quarter hour when he turned around and realized the rope had vanished, silently pulled up while he hadn't been paying attention. No doubt, Roald had returned to remove his only way of pulling himself out of the hole.

"Roald!" he yelled, but there was no answer. He didn't expect there to be one.

He probably won't come back, you know. The quiet voice of his mentor wasn't saying anything he hadn't already thought himself.

"I know," he muttered, certain at this point that no one was within hearing. "But it's on his head, then, if Prefect Agnete catches him, not on mine."

You're taking his abuse rather well, Akatosh observed.

Tavian shrugged. "It's not like I could beat him in a fight," he said quietly. "Roald has twenty pounds and several inches on me."

Learning when not to fight is at least as important as knowing what causes you'll defend, the Dragon God of Time observed. The Greybeards have done well with you.

"I guess so," Tavian reflected. "But I didn't realize I was going to be sent to Cyrodiil. I can't find Word Walls down here!"

All things in their time, his mentor assured him. You have your life ahead of you. The Words will still be there, when you get to them.

There was an absence, and Tavian knew he was alone once more.

He decided not to continue with the privy hole. After all, he had no way out, and why dig himself in deeper? He felt sure that someone would come by soon to check on his progress and be able to help him out, but the afternoon wore on and no one came.

I knew it, Tavian thought sourly. He gave an exasperated sigh and tossed his shovel up and out. He jumped for the lip of the shaft he'd dug and fell back, unable to reach it. It was several feet above the highest point his hands could reach. Frowning in consternation, he tried again, scrabbling to get a hold on anything that would get him out. Roots and stones, buried in the walls, pulled out into his hands as he fell a second time.

"Dammit!" he swore. "Roald!" he called out. "Are you there? Is anyone there?"

The privy holes, he knew, had to be excavated some distance from the training camp in order not to pollute their water supply. Had their camp been in the Imperial City itself, they would have had the modern convenience of privies connected to the underground sewer systems, and digging this hole would not have been needed.

But they had moved to this camp, east of the Imperial Island, after their second week of basic training in the city, which had consisted of a lot of marching in columns in uniforms, and sparring with the quintains in the practice grounds. He was far enough away right now that he doubted anyone would hear him.

Unless…I Shouted.

He really didn't want to do that. He was already regarded with suspicion by several of the Nord recruits, who knew who his father was. But he couldn't get himself out of the hole he'd dug. He knew if he waited long enough, someone would come looking for him, but he was also certain that he'd be mocked, especially by Roald and his buddies, who would laugh at him for having to be rescued.

It was getting darker, and Tavian got to his feet. Crouching at the bottom of the hole had not been comfortable, as it was very narrow. It was only required to be wide enough to fill with excrement.

"Wait," he realized. He pressed back against one side wall and lifted one leg, planting it against the opposite side. Bringing the other leg up, he was now suspended about two feet off the bottom. He extended his arms downward, palms flat against the dirt, and pushed hard enough to brace himself as he slid his back up the shaft, and moved his legs further up. He was now three feet off the bottom.

In this manner he worked himself slowly up the shaft, wondering as he did so why the Prefect had never returned to check on him. He knew she didn't like him, but that should not have made a difference in the performance of her duty. She would still have been responsible for him.

About halfway up the ten-foot-deep shaft, he paused and braced himself against the walls to catch his breath and take some of the strain off his arms. As he rested there, he thought he heard voices calling in the distance.

"Here!" Tavian yelled back. "I'm here!"

But the voices faded. They hadn't heard him, and were moving away. More determined than ever to get out, he braced himself once more and resumed the grueling task of hauling his body upwards. It took several more minutes before he realized he was within a couple feet of the top of the hole. If he lunged for the top, he might slip and fall back down, possibly injuring himself.

Just keep going, he told himself. Don't rush it.

He could hear the voices far off in the distance once more, but he couldn't spare the breath to call out again. With another supreme effort, he reached the top and saw a large root jutting up from the soil near the tree to which he had tied his rope. The rope was gone, but Tavian made a lunge for the root and grabbed it, hauling himself the rest of the way out of the privy hole. Gasping, he lay there for a moment, catching his breath, as the voices in the distance drew nearer.

"I'm over here!" he managed to yell, and there was a flurry of movement in the fading light of the evening, and the sounds of jingling armor and thudding footsteps as a small party of Legion soldiers, including Prefect Agnete and Legate Ostorius, who oversaw their operations.

"There he is!" a familiar voice called out, and Tavian gave a faint smile as he recognized Josef's among them. He scrambled to his feet, covered in dirt and mud, as they approached.

"Explain yourself, plebe!" Prefect Agnete snapped, irritated.

"Sir, I finished the privy hole, sir," Tavian reported.

"Bear-Walker returned hours ago," the Nord woman accused. "Where have you been?"

"Down there, sir," Tavian replied, as innocently as he could, nodding his head towards the hole.

The Prefect's eyes narrowed, and she took a deep breath to continue to ream him a new one.

"Prefect," Legate Ostorius cut in before she could speak. "I think we can sort this out later. It's late, and I believe we should get these two plebes back before curfew." His shrewd eyes missed nothing, taking in the depth of the hole, the lack of any kind of rope or ladder, and the recruit standing before him covered in debris. There was nothing in his voice that indicated his private thoughts on the matter, but Tavian thought he could see, in the lantern light, a faint lift of one corner of the Legate's mouth.

"As you command, sir," the Prefect replied. "You heard him, you two," she scowled at Tavian and Josef. "Move out!"

They hurried ahead of the rest of the search party – and Tavian had no doubt that's what it had been. It was still humiliating, but part of him was satisfied that he'd managed to get himself out on his own.

After lights out, he spoke with Josef in hushed whispers, and told him what had happened.

"I knew that slimy snake had done something," his Nord friend hissed in the dark. "He came back and said you two were finished, and that you were putting the equipment away! Why didn't you tell the Prefect what really happened?"

"And get a reputation for being a snitch?" Tavian whispered harshly. "No thanks. Roald will get himself into trouble one of these days that he won't be able to blame on anyone else," he continued. "I don't even care if I'm around to see it happen. I just want to get through basic, and decide what I'll do after that."

"You're a better man than me, my friend," Josef yawned, turning over on his bunk. "I would have punched his face in!"

In the morning, Tavian was summoned into the Legate's office. Nervous, as he wasn't sure what he'd done wrong this time, he reported as ordered.

"At ease, young man," the Legate remarked, and Tavian relaxed only slightly. "I heard the report yesterday from recruit Bear-Walker," he began. "Now I'd like to hear your version."

"My version, sir?" Tavian asked.

"Yes," the Legate nodded. "You were missing for hours. Bear-Walker claimed you were returning the tools you'd both used yesterday. Except the quartermaster tells me you never showed up. When we arrived last night and found you, all the tools you'd borrowed were there – except the rope. So, what really happened?"

"I don't know, sir," Tavian answered, keeping his face carefully neutral, and staring straight ahead of him. "Roald hurt his hand and went to the healers. I finished the privy hole on my own. I stupidly forgot to use the rope, sir."

"You…forgot."

"Yes, sir."

"That was a ten-foot-deep hole," the Legate pointed out.

"I jumped in, sir."

"Erm-hmm," Legate Ostorius mused. "You jumped in, without the rope."

"Yes, sir."

"And how did you get out?" the Legate inquired, curious.

"I climbed up the way a chimney-sweep does, sir," Tavian replied, still not looking at his commanding officer.

"And that's why you were covered in dirt," Legate Ostorius nodded, understanding. "Well, I think that covers everything I wanted to know," he continued, "except for one thing."

"Sir?"

"What happened to the rope?"

Tavian swallowed hard. "I don't know, sir," he admitted. "It wasn't there when I came out of the hole."

The Legate nodded again. "I see. You're dismissed, recruit. Return to your duties."

Tavian let out a slow breath of relief and saluted, turning to leave.

"Oh, and one more thing, Dovahkiir," the Legate interjected.

Tavian turned back. "Yes, sir?"

"Try not to jump into any more holes, okay?"

Tavian grinned and saluted again. "I'll do my best, sir!"