Chapter 73: Test Jump
"Ow, ow, ow," Curtis softly grumbled as Colette manipulated the muscles in his left hip. Her magicka blocked the pain, but twinges still got through.
A "bag of holding," a standard fantasy trope, was the cheat item that allowed players to carry an unheard-of amount of supplies and equipment. No bulk. No weight. No fumbling around to pack and unpack items. Even bags written with limits could allow someone to carry a cartload of baggage, say a bulky thousand pounds inside a hand-sized purse. During travel, all the team leaders of the Ma'dran Trading Company carried all their wares in the one satchel slung over their shoulders (and more in small chests hidden near their usual campsites).
In the Skyrim game, such an item wasn't explicitly said to exist. Players could immediately carry about 200 pounds of items without any visible bulk to hinder their movements. With enchantments and blessings, the weight limit could get to ridiculous levels.
Sho'maru was a Khajiit whose business was to make magical items like these travel bags. He was concerned the artificial storage dimension would become unstable during teleportation.
First test jump — attached to Curtis's belt was a hand-sized purse stuffed with twenty pounds of snacks and drinks on a mark-and-recall jump from the College to Skytemple to restock the employee breakroom.
Kaboom.
The contents of the bag vanished into the void. Curtis avoided that thanks to the safety protocols of the jump spell to shield and preserve organic life. His armor took most of the damage. However, he still took fourth-degree radiation burns from ribs to hip.
His suit's "black box" recorded everything. Curtis forbade any other test jumps until Sho'maru finished his analysis.
"First test, first jump, and right off the bat, a total blowout," he mourned, sighing and pulling down his shirt.
"The documentation on the old gates is shockingly scarce," Colette remarked. "But, I suppose, that's the nature of monopolies. In Morrowind, all those legendary scrolls of teleportation—"
"Almsivi Intervention," Curtis named automatically without thinking.
"Yes, those. All of those were tied to the temples, so Drevis tells me. They were meant as emergency evacuation tools. Ideally, anyone using them as a life-saving measure would be immediately brought to where medical aid could be rendered. All the other teleport stations were run by the old Mages Guild. And since Winterhold was never a part of the Guild, the technicalities of the teleports were never shared."
"Yeah," said Curtis. "As I understand it the masters after Shalidor never pushed to know. The College also never wanted the responsibilities and politics that came along with gate operations."
He stood up and gently stretched, wincing at the pain. Colette brushed her hand over his waist, and the pain disappeared.
"Don't push, Curtis. Our spells helped the new cells develop faster, but it still takes time for regrown nerves and muscles to get up to speed. And no booze. Your kidney wasn't badly singed, but it doesn't need the extra work. Water only. Unfortunately, it's the same for your intestines, so no substantial meals. I'll prepare a broth you can sip if you're hungry."
Curtis smiled, amused at how fast the Restorations school was absorbing the medical knowledge Alice Subha was teaching.
"Yeah. I know. I plan to only do paperwork for the next couple of days."
"I suppose that includes the latest tracking reports on Faralda's cousin," said Colette. "What was the name he was going by again?"
"He goes by Salen of Skywatch when he's out and about as a wandering bard. Seems he's finally coming to Winterhold. I'm sure he'll avoid the College to keep his distance from Faralda."
"Are you thinking of a confrontation? Or will you have Faralda avoid going into town while he's here?"
"I would prefer they not meet. So far, we're getting good data on where Thalmor patrols are and their hidden supply caches. And, of course, where patrols are likely to strike. But since he's ballsy enough to come here, we need to discourage him from wanting to roll through here again. Distractions. Hmm. I'm thinking it's time Salen the Bard gets the paparazzi treatment."
"Papa-what?"
"People who won't leave you alone because they want to steal every aspect of your life and sell it for gossip. A Summerset bard acknowledged by the Archimage Dragonborn should expect such annoying attention in Winterhold."
"I see. It would be hard to spy when surrounded by such nosy people. Perhaps Faralda should stray into town at inopportune moments when her dear cousin gets too close to sensitive areas."
"Doing that means she would have to be on call. Does she have time for that?"
"She'll make time for family," Colette answered with ambiguous satisfaction.
Salen of Skywatch; real (shortened) name, Meran Elsinor. First Ambassador to Skyrim. However, the body people most often saw as the First Ambassador was the Third Ambassador, a look-alike cousin trained to mimic Meran's speech and gestures. His magic was lesser, and he could not sing at all.
Faralda had nothing to say about the Third Ambassador. All she knew was he was fifty years younger than Meran from his mother's side, thus no blood connection to her family line. She'd never met him.
As for Meran, he was a two-faced arrogant prick who looked down on her family because they chose a quiet scholar's life and preferred country living. However, Meran had learned early on from his farm girl cousin that "slash-and-burn" was not just a crude land-clearing technique.
Faralda accepted her assignment with a faint, pleased smile.
X—X—X—X—X—X—X
"You've gotten better at mimicking the old Atmoran accent," praised Curtis. "And wearing that hood and mask while performing is smart. Less chance for the Nords to throw their tankards at you."
"I still get tankards thrown, but I wear padding under my hood, and my mask is reinforced to take light blows."
"Smart. So, how you liking Winterhold so far?"
"I don't so far. And thank you for the rescue," he added, languidly waiving his hand around overhead to take in the four walls of the tiny room Curtis had invited him into for a drink. It was the storage room that the innkeeper would not allow customers to enter. Curtis was one of the exceptions.
"I cannot understand why those leeches insist on attaching themselves to me. They say they admire of my music but won't shut up during my performances."
"Fans can be weird," Curtis agreed with a look of heartfelt sympathy as palatable as thickly spread butter-colored Crisco on toast.
The Altmer wouldn't know what "Crisco" was, but he was sharp enough to recognize fool's gold. This Dark Elf was laughing at him. That was fine. Being a brilliant engineer didn't mean he wasn't also a fool.
"Oh, here, try this drink. Is your throat feeling better?"
Meran downed the hot, overly sweetened sourberry juice. He'd tried singing the song "Kiss From A Rose," popular in Winterhold and among Dunmer. Midway, it had felt like someone had slapped his throat hard, and that was it for his voice for the rest of the evening. He had no idea what had happened. If he were a superstitious fool, he'd think the blasphemous goddess Azura had taken issue with his mouth on her song.
He sneaked a sideways glance at Curtis. What he knew about the Dunmer conflicted with what he saw. The confirmed traits of brilliance, creativeness, and refined artistry were jewels in a crown that did not sit well on the head of this thuggish brute sloppily slumped in his chair and wiping his face with a knitted scarf of tasteless, garishly colored yarn.
A scarred fist clutched a heavy ceramic mug that had printed on its side, "Stop Flaking Out!" Drifting from the mug was the delicately fragrant scent of green tea that could proudly be served in the noble salons of Alinor. The brute grinned, showing ridiculously white teeth that had to be cleaned and polished daily.
"So, any place you're interested in seeing?" Curtis asked casually.
Yes, all those secret projects in the nearby ruins. But, of course, Meran couldn't say that. So far, the Thalmor had failed every attempt to get spies into those projects. Skytemple, he knew, had something to do with teleportation. Another nearby location concerned ancient secrets of the Falmer. And in Markarth, Thalmor command had been livid to lose the chance to learn more of the secrets of the Dwemer. So many opportunities wasted by that fool Ondolemar had wasted. Now this Dunmer and that traitor Calcelmo had Nchuand-Zel locked tighter than Alinor's borders. The construction machines coming out from the ancient Dwemer city hinted at just how easily another nightmare Numidium could be built if this Dunmer and his associates so chose.
And that other thrice-cursed fool assigned to Winterhold had botched his assignment. All he had been required to do was keep his head down and report what that little out-of-the-way school was doing. He'd underestimated the situation, causing his reports to be inadequate. The unforgivable arrogance he shared with his team leader to dismiss this school and the Dragonborn!
The situation was a disaster that scared the hated Psijic Monks out of hiding.
The fact that, after the Dragonborn resigned, the new Archimage was an Orsimer infuriated Meran. A properly trained agent could've led the primitive brute to proper compliance with the Dominion. But there was no chance to place another spy within the College because a damned Psijic monk stood as the advisor to the new Archimage.
Curtis smiled as he sewed keg buttons onto his garish entry to an ugly sweater contest.
"Oh, don't hold back. Tell us what you really feel," he urged, though Meran couldn't hear him.
Meran was complaining to his second in Solitude. The Dominion had invented mage-to-mage communication orbs, fantasy trope inventions that relied entirely on magic. The downside of these things was that only mages could operate them. Then, again, these devices were only available for vital missions, and Justiciars were almost always mages. At present, there was no way to tap into those transmissions.
However, Meran still carried that utility knife the Dragonborn had awarded him some months ago, a handy little blade embedded with circuitry that tracked his movements and recorded conversations. All that data was automatically uploaded to the OnStar system.
Meran was unaware he was live-streaming his call via the utility knife he was currently using to cut his dinner. He was also unaware that Faralda, Archimage Urag, Psijic Advisor Gelebros, Joric, and Architect Drilira were also listening. Others, elsewhere, also listened.
"This is such a total cheat," said Revyn Sadri from his room in Silgrad, Morrowind. He and his wife, the Dragonborn, were on a goodwill tour of Morrowind. "Such a spy device on Lady Elenwen would have made my life so much easier."
"I disagree, beloved," said the Dragonborn sternly. "You would have felt obliged to take action even though you were already working at the limits of your wits and resources. You did not need any distractions."
"Ambassador Elenwen was annoying and got her position for being the one to break Ulfric," Joric suddenly chimed in. "Meran and his team are leagues above a jumped-up prison warden, and he has higher and better government connections and resources.
"If they had been appointed instead of Elenwen, Skyrim's civil war would have escalated and destroyed us before you, Lady Dragonborn, could have saved us. Alduin would have been at full strength within a year after Helgen." He said this with godlike certainty.
"Leave this to Master Curtis and his people; he's our counter to the Sapiarch of Cultural Studies, Justiciar Meran."
"Uh, thanks for the vote of confidence, but don't just put this all on me," said Curtis uneasily.
Joric turned his face to him and smiled in a way a child's face shouldn't smile. "You told me a while back that you're the Master Mechanic here, and rookies should stay out of your way while you fix things. I agree. The might of the Dwemer was never in their Brass God. That was a machine. A tool. A war machine only as good as the grease monkey that maintains it."
"Watch your mouth, kid," growled Curtis.
Related story(s): #41 Gardener of Mer; #68 5th House