Chapter 44
"Solitude's gotten a lot bigger than I remember. I'm honestly surprised it's held up this long. The arch isn't the most optimally stable," said Serana. "I wonder, how many more centuries it will last?"
"I know you'd probably survive, still, don't fall," advised Rodina, pulling Serana down from the outer wall of the Bard's College courtyard. Serana had wanted to inspect the stone arch holding up the city over the bay and to watch the Imperial armada sailing into Solitude's port. The Emperor was coming to attend a cousin's wedding.
Tariq wasn't happy about the Emperor's visit. They'd come to Solitude to look for a private boat to take them near the island Serana claimed was her home. It wasn't easy. The isle was reputed to be cursed, and people mysteriously disappeared. They'd finally found a small passenger boat after two days of asking around and for double fees. But with the Emperor's visit, all private and commercial ship traffic was halted for security reasons, and it would stay that way for the next weeks or so.
Solitude was an expensive place to stay, and it was ungodly crowded. Except for Rodina, the rest of them disliked the crush. Cities stank, and pickpockets were going wild. Tariq found it a daily struggle to keep his purse and gear safe from pickpockets and other unsubtle robbers. And then there were arrogant nobles or self-entitled idiots who daily tried to claim their horses from the stables. Valdimar and Lydia took turns sleeping at the stables to guard the horses. Already, Tariq had to twice bail Valdimar out of Solitude's jails when the housecarl got rough with would-be horse thieves who just happened to have noble connections.
Today, it was Lydia's turn to be bailed out. But this time, it wasn't so easy. The man whose jaw she broke was actually a young count of the city. The count was also hysterically insisting that Cairo be killed for breaking the arms and ribs of his servants he'd ordered to saddle the warhorse as his bodyguards distracted Lydia with combat.
Rodina got the matter heard in Jarl Elisif's court, pulling hard on the royal patronage they'd earned from fetching the ancient edda from the Dead Men's Respite tomb. The edda had been the key to restoring the Burning of King Olaf festival, which had proved popular with the citizens of Solitude.
Tariq carefully explained to the beautiful young Jarl that Cairo was a prized warhorse bred from exceptional bloodlines and trained to obey only one master and kill anyone else trying to ride him. It was not a show horse bred for pleasure or casual riding. The Atmoran mare was prized for breeding, and the others were trained to be steady amidst battle. It was why he had his housecarls guarding his horses.
As for the young noble's inconvenience… Tariq was prepared to pay reasonable compensation not involving Lydia losing a hand or handing over any of his horses. He bluntly told the young noble he was free to boast of getting gold from the Dragonborn after he'd tried and failed to steal the Dragonborn's warhorse.
Upon the advice of Minister Firebeard and Thane Bryling, Jarl Elisif dismissed the charges and fined the young noble — effectively taking away the gold he'd gotten from Tariq — for wasting the court's time. No further action was taken as this was an open court, and news of the young fool's actions would be all over the city before nightfall.
"Dragonborn, have lunch with me," the Jarl ordered as the court and audience was dismissed for the next two hours. Rodina and Lydia moved to follow him but were stopped by Minister Firebeard.
He followed her to the outer room of the royal chambers. Servants quickly set up lunch for two and left. Her housecarl scowled as she ordered him to stand guard outside the room.
Tariq smiled blandly and forked up the Imperial City-style food. He'd heard Elisif was born and raised in the Imperial City and had met High King Torygg when he'd come to attend some festival at the White Gold Tower. Elisif, the only child of an insignificant noble family, was already famed for her beauty at 14. Married at 16, widowed at 18, and left with all the responsibilities as High Queen of Skyrim.
He was surprised opportunistic relatives for Cyrodiil hadn't yet swarmed her for positions and favors. She was lucky with Torygg's cousin, Firebeard. That one's reputation was good for protecting the throne. The same could not be said for Thane Erikur, trade and finance advisor. Tariq had observed them during the hearing. His instincts said Minister Firebeard was honest and honorable, and Thane Erikur was loyal only to his purse. His only restraint was his need for public rank and respect, only because those were easy advantages. The other advisor noble, Thane Bryling, was respected as an honorable warrior. Tariq had no strong feelings about her save that she was conservative in politics and probably an excellent leader within her home territory but not savvy enough for the international arena.
They made small talk about the weather and the upcoming festivities with the visit of the Emperor. Tariq wondered what she hoped to gain by this meeting. He felt uncomfortable. Rodina and Dean Viarmo had spent an evening lecturing him at length about the historical and religious significance of the Dragonborn to the Nords and the Empire. Most points he casually knew as an outsider. Like, "this is what the eastern barbarians believe over there." Well, now "there" was "here," and he needed to be more sensitive to the nuances of such beliefs to the local culture and issues.
And with the Emperor in Skyrim, they told him to avoid anyone who wants to discuss the legitimacy of either the Mede Emperors or the throne of the High King of Skyrim. Being a Redguard protected him somewhat from Dragonborn fanatics, who couldn't fathom what the gods were doing to make a non-Nord the Dragonborn. Those Empire fanatics and purists would not want to see a Redguard as the Emperor. And, as he knew, in Skyrim's civil war, either side would be eager to grasp his favor as the banner in their war of righteousness.
"So, you came to Skyrim to practice your swordsmanship and learn new battle skills. And then suddenly you became The Dragonborn, with the world demanding more than you were prepared to give… I can imagine the hardship and trouble this has caused you," the Jarl said suddenly, dropping the mask of the cheerful hostess. "You are so brave to take on Skyrim's troubles with the dragons. It's not your country, your people…"
"We share the same sky, the same winds," Tariq said, interrupting her. "My country does not need further invaders. I see this as my duty — given to me by my god — to stop them here if I can before they come to my homeland."
She stared at him in astonishment and then laughed.
"Who is your god?" she asked.
"HoonDing, The Make-Way God."
"I'm sorry. I know nothing of your gods. It was silly of me to ask what I don't understand."
"But how else can one acquire knowledge if one does not ask and be willing to play the fool?" Tariq countered. "True fools are those who think they know everything, who have fixed their minds to one place to never move again."
"I thought it was a virtue for a warrior to stand his ground?" she countered, smiling to show she was teasing. "To be an oak in a storm. Very well then, tell me about the Make-Way God."
"He is a careless god. By that, I mean he cares little for rules and governance. He claims no territory, preferring to wander and follow what interests him. We Yokudans caught his interest as we struggled against the Sinistral Elves, and he came to our aid. For a brief time, for only a moment, he incarnates into a champion who turns the tide of battle. He opens the blocked path; he makes clear the direction and answer to victory. And then he leaves once his task is done."
"He leaves? But if he leaves, could not the battle turn against you then?" she asked, puzzled.
"His goal is only to show the way. He does not guarantee victory, lest the people grow uselessly dependent on his strength. If we lose after he had come to show us how to win, then that is on us, and he takes no further responsibility. As I said, he is a careless god. It is a joke, you see. Shall I explain the joke?"
"This is supposed to be funny? I've heard having to explain a joke ruins it."
"Casually, yes. But in diplomacy, a careless joke is too often mistaken as a statement of fact or intent and may ruin relations."
"Very well. Explain the joke to me because I don't understand."
"Before HoonDing became known to the people, he was known as the spirit of 'Nobody Really Cares,' which may, at first hearing, be understood as a state of indifference, of not caring. That is to say, 'there is no one who cares.' But another stance, perhaps it is someone — a nameless, faceless nobody — who actually does care and is willing to intervene — the stranger who dives into a frozen pond or river to rescue the drowning child; the passing hunter who you do not see but whose arrows slay the wolves attacking you; the small mercy of the person who tosses coins into a beggar's bowl; the soldier who chooses to look the other way as an enemy escapes. This type of savior prefers not to be known by those they rescue. Perhaps it is because of that burdensome reason that proclaims, 'If you save a life, you are responsible for it.' Who wouldn't want to evade such a curse because of a moment's charity? After all, the life you save on impulse, how would you know beforehand if that life was worth saving? Did you save a saint or a demon? If you would take the credit, then you must also take the blame. And you also do not know for certain if that saved life would be grateful or resentful, a future benefactor or a clinging leech."
"Wouldn't a god already know?" the Jarl asked.
Tariq smiled wryly and shrugged. "Auri-El saw the births of Mannimarco and Galerion. If he knew their futures… yet they both lived. Shor saw your husband and Ulfric, yet who lives and who died? Do the gods not care? Or, what do they know that these things happen? What defines a god? Such beings do not live for our convenience any more than we truly live for theirs. Well, HoonDing and Tall Papa are not one for claiming to own millions of cattle. The domesticated life is not the one they want."
"Then why do you worship such indifferent gods?"
"Because they care in their own way," said Tariq patiently. "Neither approved the creation of Mundus. Tall Papa perhaps felt he owed some responsibility, for he was the one to create Sep, The Hunger, to clean up the crumpled skins Satakal left behind when it recreated itself. It was Sep who tempted the naive spirits of Aetherius to this world. Tall Papa crushed Sep for it, but the damage was done. HoonDing had no part in Sep's creation and was not bothered by Satakal's scattered skins. He was curious, though, at the strange lives so attached to this unnatural rock called Mundus. He was a wanderer who found an attraction to one plant among many, to a family of animals among the many he'd hunted before and would hunt afterward. He was not interested in domestication, yet he found himself looking for them the next time he was in the area. He even intervened when they were in danger, in his mind, becoming one of them. We may call it moments of sympathy if we fancy we can understand the thoughts of an immortal being."
"A moment. Sep? What is Sep to persuade the Aedra to create the world? Is this another name for Shor? And who is Satakal?"
"That is the lore of my people. It is different than what the elves and the Imperial Cult teaches. Satakal is the Great Serpent or all of creation. The stars are scale bits, and the misty road of stars is a glimpse of his body. Satakal is Everything. All life, all Death. Sep is the second Serpent, the embodiment of a small fragment of Satakal's bottomless hunger. As I said, Tall Papa did not like the messes, the scattered scales and tangles of shed skin left over from each time Satakal destroyed itself and was reborn. Sep was made to eat the excess waste and the broken souls who had no strength to survive the dying and rebirthing. Detritus that washed up and cluttered the Far Shores. But I think Sep is more closely related to Alduin than Shor.
"Hungry as Sep was, constantly hunting the length and breadth of creation for a meal was tiring, and he conceived a plan for an easy feeding spot. A trap, if you will. He gathered and regurgitated Satakal's shed skins, squeezing them together to create the foundation of Mundus. He enticed many new and naive spirits and souls to invest their powers into the sterile stone to bring life to it. But merely starting life was not enough. Trees, flowers, grass, fish — these were not enough. It needed souls. By their invested powers did Sep trap the Aedra, binding their spirits to coarse earth; thus, many Aedra died and thus begat the mortal lives that we are. The Aedra that escaped the trapping cried out, and Tall Papa was made aware of what his creation had done. He crushed Sep's head, leaving Sep an ambition of Hunger that will never find a moment of relief."
"Oh, I've never heard this before," said the Jarl. She shook her head and sighed. "And your Nobody-Cares god told you to stop the dragons in Skyrim before they get to Hammerfell? Do I at least understand that correctly?"
"I believe so." She stared at him, clearly thinking him mad.
"And you are destined to kill Alduin - who is Sep with the crushed head?"
"Yes. Though, put that way, it sounds foolish." He smiled and shrugged. "Sep was created from the eternal Satakal and cannot be truly destroyed. Sep is the remains of the greatest bonfire, the lingering ember that may spark the next great conflagration. But as he is still a god, it is not inconceivable that he has found a way to manifest himself through these dragon creatures. As Akatosh used the body of the last Septim to battle Mehrunes Dagon on Nirn, Sep has chosen a lizard vessel. Therefore, my role is — simply — destroy the body of his manifestation and send him back to Oblivion."
"'Simply,'" the Jarl repeated heavily. "'Simply" destroy the God of the End Times. 'Simply' destroy death itself."
"He is Hunger. Sometimes hunger is false, a mere notion of the need to eat, and so may be discouraged. I am not so vain to think I can kill a god. And yet, I find the notion that I may become strong enough to temporarily close the mouth of destruction amusing. I came to Skyrim to seek challenges to improve my blade mastery, and I believe I found them. My skills have grown in unexpected ways."
"Oh? I am so happy for you then. I wish I could find such growth, but the ones I'd hoped would be my teachers have little time to spare to teach me."
"As may be expected from those in power," Tariq said cautiously. The girl was not dealing well with the pressures being placed on her. The High Throne of Skyrim was an important fulcrum bearing the fortunes of Skyrim and the Empire. A historical fact through the shared blood of the ruling lines. But the Medes were pure Colovials with no intermarriages with Ysgramor's heirs, and they treated Skyrim not as brothers but as just another subordinate province of the Empire. A presumptuous one at that. The balance was off. The pretty girl from Cyrodiil was crumbling under the weight. This level of housekeeping — the governance of a province — had never been a part of her bridal training to become a responsible housewife.
It wasn't his place to offer comfort and advice on governance.
"Perhaps a little walk after this delicious meal," he suggested. "The palace gardens?"
"The only garden is the entrance courtyard. It's usually crowded, and I rarely go there."
"Ah. An art gallery?"
"My husband's family has an extensive collection of armor and weapons."
"I see. An evening of music, then? Tomorrow evening, if there are no pressing matters you have to deal with," he suggested.
"Tomorrow? I suppose I could have Falk request bards from the College to come," she said reluctantly.
"No, no, my lady. The bards are celebrating the graduation of their senior class of students, and these seniors will be performing to demonstrate their skills. It is somewhat of a public event for family and friends. As Rodina is part of my team, I and my team have invitations to attend. Come with me. No formal escort and disguised. Shall you be a housemaid?" He examined her critically. "A simple hair dye and cosmetic tricks as actors use won't work with the bards. Perhaps a young soldier with a full-face helmet? No, why would a soldier attend, especially one that rudely refuses to take off her helmet as a guest?"
"What about a veil? They have become most fashionable in High Rock," the Jarl said, excited at the thought of a masquerade. "I think I can act a young noble lady from High Rock. At this time of year, many High Rock nobles visit. Fans, hats, veils, and much lace. Hm. There's a Daggerfall merchant here with his daughter, and she is my age and size. He and Thane Erikur are talking about new imports from Sentinel. The Wakefield Trading House."
"The Wakefields? Yes, they are a major Breton trading house known to many merchants in Sentinel, including my mother," said Tariq. "Do you plan to get a dress from them? I believe they mostly deal in spices outside of High Rock."
Her housecarl knocked on the door and informed her that court was beginning to reassemble.
"Have lunch with me tomorrow," ordered the Jarl. "I should be able to show you my costume and we can plot our escape."
… … …
"Your father is in Markarth renewing his acquaintance with Calcelmo and celebrating the birth of his adopted son, our grandchild. I came with Bertrand because I was interested in the northern goat wool he was considering for import. I also wanted to visit my dear friend, Taarie, whom I haven't seen in decades. You must visit her, Tariq. When I had your naming ceremony in the Temple of Akatosh, she accepted the role of godsmother. A little custom in the Imperial City that means she would look out for you as a mother should I have died before you became an adult. She knew so much gossip about the Dragonborn.
"My son, what have you been up to?"
Jarl Elisif, Emily Wakefield, Bertram Wakefield, and Serana witnessed this play with great interest. The Jarl, Emily, and Serana listened as they sorted through the trunk of clothing Wakefield had hauled in, putting together the Jarl's dress for the evening. Merchant Wakefield was relaxing with a goblet of wine, watching with amusement.
Tariq, the village idiot, sat there unable to comprehend the massive tail slap to the head the universe had given him. He was just now managing to believe his mother was in Solitude. But what was she saying?
"Just sword training, mother. I'm just sword training."
"Ah, yes. Sword training. Fighting another country's bandits and monsters and putting fear into the Dominion with rumors of the rising of a new dragon emperor in Skyrim. Enough of a rumor that Titus has come north on the pretext of attending a distant cousin's wedding. How ironic. The Penitus Oculatus has been scouring Skyrim for information on this legendary Dragonborn, and here you conveniently are."
Just listen to her, casually dropping the Imperial name. He'd once thought his father's tale of stealing mother from the future emperor just casual boasting that men do, but there was evidently something to it. His father was never a liar, and his mother was the princess of a fashion house that still boasted Imperial patronage.
"You've always had long ears, mother. Still, how have you heard of all this? I cannot believe this is casual talk among noblewomen in the Imperial City or Sentinel."
"No, it's not. Calcelmo, according to Altmeri manners regarding bloodlines, wrote to inform us that you were having a child with the woman he was affianced to. No disgrace there because this affair was done before they made the bonding official. Also, he wanted to assure us that he was taking full financial responsibility to raise the child as his own. Then I also heard of your exploits from a mutual friend in Markarth."
"Mutual friend? Not Calcelmo or his nephew? Who else is there?"
She smiled mysteriously. "When I was much younger, and before I met your father, I used to know a family of warriors. They had a son, and we shared the same tutors. I often took my sewing to the practice yard to watch him train with the blade. We both had a love of books. And after he was done practicing, I would read him our lesson books aloud while he rested."
"You speak of Arno, by chance?" he asked, thinking of the old Blade archivist.
"Edmund." Tariq was startled. He couldn't imagine that Blade assassin and smuggler a childhood playmate of his mother.
"Mother, are you…" He shut up. His little gazelle of a mother. He had trouble thinking of her as an ex-Blade. No, she just knew Blades. She could not have hidden being a Blade from his father. He would not have married her if she had been one.
She reached up and patted his cheek affectionately. "Edmund didn't immediately recognize you as mine because you still childishly insist on using your grandfather's name instead of your father's. And while you look like your father, Edmund never developed a friendship with my husband, so it took him a while to recall when and where he'd seen your face." She spun away from him to Elisif.
"A pretty dress you've chosen, but that veil draws too much attention. That plain one, there, would be a better mask."
Jarl Elisif enjoyed herself listening to good music and had good food washed down with spiced wine. It was late when they returned to the Blue Palace. Serana met them at the entrance courtyard to escort them inside if the guards, on high alert with the Emperor in town, were troublesome to pass. The two guards behind her had that glazed look of thralls.
Inside, soldiers immediately surrounded them. Not Solitude's soldiers. Penitus Oculatus, the Emperor's soldiers. Standing well off to the side were other soldiers in light armor, two with mage staves and one with a bow crackling with a lightning enchantment.
"Dragonborn, please come with us." The officer in charge then bowed to the Jarl. "Your Highness, His Imperial Majesty grants you the opportunity to speak with him privately if you wish. If not, my subordinates will escort you back inside." He glanced at Serana. "This lady is excluded from the invitation."
"Take the opening," hissed Tariq as he felt the Jarl hesitating. "The Emperor can order General Tullius to stop ignoring you."
"Let's not keep His Imperial Majesty waiting," said Elisif firmly.
"Don't follow, if you please. I do not want them acting foolishly to your presence," Tariq asked Serana. She nodded and went to an ominous door on the right. Jarl Elisif made a move as if to stop her, but Tariq tugged her back to his side.
"That's the Pelagius Wing," she said worriedly.
"She'll be fine. She won't make undue trouble for anyone in there."
He didn't know what to expect to feel upon meeting Emperor Titus Mede II. But should it have been distaste?
Practiced friendliness and approachable. The Emperor knew the words and body expressions to coax the Jarl into comfortable confidence. Other little things prevented Tariq from thinking this was the man who rejected the Dominion, suffered the loss of his city, and battled hard to regain it. And then he betrayed everyone who'd backed him to concede territory and power to the Dominion.
He'd made a gift of Hammerfell to the Dominion. Unforgivable.
Yet, it had taken this to unite the Crowns and Ra Gada for the first time in centuries. A tenuous alliance, granted, but Tariq wasn't the only one who hoped it would be the start of something greater.
He felt he should hate this man, but the fire wasn't there.
The shrew-eyed Emperor coaxed Jarl Elisif into confiding her frustration with the high-handedness of General Tullius using all her domain's resources while ignoring her. The General treated her like an ignorant, spoiled child. She was untrained and incompetent, and she knew it. And old enough and aware enough to resent this "guardian" the Empire chose, who came into her house, spent all her money, and made her handle all the resulting complaints from her people. The very least he could do was make time to counsel her on the problems he saw in her Hold and give her advice she was not likely to get from her current advisors. But every time, he kept putting her off requests for consultation, saying he had a war to conduct.
She was getting quite detailed, and Tariq felt he was intruding on what should be confidential government matters. He stood up and slowly moved towards the door. The Emperor glanced at him and smiled faintly, nodding. Tariq gratefully eased himself out of the room. The guards scowled at him. "There are matters rulers need to discuss which I do not need to hear," he told them. He pointed to a nearby bench. "I'll just sit over there until the Emperor summons me back in."
A man hiding in the shadows of another doorway chuckled. "Come with me," said the man in the voice of the Emperor, "and we can talk, Dragonborn, son of Selim and Rosa." The guards did not react. Tariq followed.
Body doubles. He should not be surprised the Emperor used the tactic to field a decoy for public viewing while real work was done elsewhere. Now, this man evoked caution and dark feelings within Tariq.
The room they went to was a work office. A main desk, smaller clerk desks, and shelves with books and baskets of scrolls. They sat across from each other at the main desk, and the Emperor had poured a sweet dessert wine that was popular in Sentinel.
"A Redguard as the Divine Dragonborn of Nord Legend," mused the Emperor aloud. Tariq could detect no mockery in that tone. There was no respect either. "I hear you have avoided gathering the political power and monetary gains that could easily become yours in Skyrim."
"I came to Skyrim to study the sword."
"Yes. The wandering and battle experience required of an aspiring Anseisword saint. How many dragons have you taken down?"
"Eight, counting one undead dragon."
"Are the battles rewarding? Does the thought of ultimately facing a dragon god excite you?"
"Each battle has its own reward," Tariq answered cautiously.
"Divine words of powers, so legends say. Is it as rewarding as taking down Dominion patrols and spies in your home country?"
"A bit more. At least with dragons, I can make it so they do not rise again." The Emperor smiled faintly.
"This can be used against you, you know," he chided gently. "Tiber Septim was a Dragonborn. But he was never a soul eater. 'All souls have the right to make the journey to the Far Shores.'"
Tariq scowled as the Emperor quoted one of the tenets of Tall Papa's faith. It was a rebuke his beloved tutor, Priest Mehmet, would have made. He was furious, but he couldn't deny the truth of it.
"But one can't deny you are one of the acceptable blasphemies like the Dunmer define the good ones from the bad. You focus solely on dragons, while Alduin eats hundreds of souls, or so I hear from my Nord advisors. Man, mer, dragons — it makes no difference to Alduin. That one, I hear, is an indiscriminate glutton."
"Yes, it is," said Tariq impatiently, wanting to change the subject. "Mother has said you came to Skyrim to look for me. What is it you want of me?"
"I merely wish to gain a measure of your ambition. But, yes, let us be direct. Are you thinking of challenging me for the throne of the Empire?"
Tariq burst out laughing. "That is not the goal of an Ansei. Even less for a follower of the HoonDing," he answered.
"Many would push you to the throne, whether you want it or not, and may even tell you the only way to unite Hammerfell is through the force of the Empire."
"Like Tiber Septim did? How is the Empire's unity doing now? Tiber Septim may not fought dragons, but he had the ambitions of one. It will take more than the ambitions of another dragon to unite Hammerfell," Tariq stated bitterly.
'The rampage of another Nafaalilargus," said the Emperor, naming the dragon that willingly employed itself to Tiber Septim until its death at the hands of Sura-do-Hega (aka. Cyrus the Restless) at Stros M'Kai. The Emperor laughed. "Perhaps if you learned Alduin's secret of resurrecting dragons, you could resurrect the Red Dragon, and you and he could force your country's factions to unite."
"I use every dragon soul I take to empower Shouts," said Tariq. "I am not, as you described him, an 'indiscriminate glutton' like Alduin. Souls," he explained at the Emperor's questioning glance. "Alduin uses the power of all the souls he eats to enliven the dragons he resurrects. And for me, to become Emperor, I fear that would only inflate the pride of the Crowns and aggravate our class wars. My reputation among the Crowns is not stable. Some call me a hero, but many others consider me no better than the Ash'abah and a troublemaker who incites the lower class to think they are as good as the warrior class to defend our land against all invaders."
"That depends on who is talking. My agents have determined such defamation came from agents bought by the Dominion and others who are merely jealous of your skills and popularity with the ladies."
Tariq snorted with amusement and preened just a little bit.
They talked for another two hours on general matters, and Tariq's distaste of the manner lessened a little bit. The Emperor was not a coward. Tariq would never agree with some of the man's past decisions. But he was flexible enough to envision some of the pressures and/or circumstances amidst a world war that could force compromise if one valued the lives of his command. It wasn't cheap iron as the Emperor's backbone. Good Colovian steel of a warlord.
"I know you've separated from the Companions, but are you still available for hire?" asked the Emperor. "A non-political job, but one I think one of your talents can handle."
"What payment are you offering?"
"3,000 gold. My agents have trailed a Dark Brotherhood survivor of the Cheydinhal purge traveling into Skyrim. It is rumored he is transporting the Night Mother to the Skyrim sect in Falkreath. I know from other sources watching a Dominion-corrupted Elder Councilor that a contract has been taken out on my life. The Penitus Oculatus commander stationed in Dragonbridge has finally secured the password to this sanctuary." The Emperor paused and smiled faintly. "We also know there is a dragon word wall inside that sanctuary. Likely a most dangerous word if it draws the Night Mother's children. I suspect a den of assassins will be no match for a rampaging dragon any more than that den of Khulari Vampires in Santaki," he added, naming the group Tariq had eliminated some five years ago, the deed that had earned him the "Lion of Yoduda" nickname.
"Time?"
"I will be in Skyrim for two weeks. My ship, the Katariah, is as fast as any courier ship despite its size due to a secret weapon. I will sacrifice my ship's prized advantage and give this weapon to you if you complete this mission before I leave Skyrim."
"Oh?"
"A blade named 'Windshear.' It is empowered with force that can cut through a hurricane. I daresay it could knock the wind out from under a dragon."
"Tempting," Tariq conceded, eyes gleaming. "I'll see what I can do."