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Unfinished Business

With a creak, the wooden door opened into the inn, admitting into the smoky, nearly empty interior a soldier, a Bosmer, and the night wind, laden with the first chill that hinted at the coming autumn. The former held open the door for the slight elf, who gave the Imperial a wary glance before edging away to a far corner. The legion soldier frowned, and went to the counter; his kindred stood cleaning a cup.

"Um, some mead and whatever you have cooking," he said. With a smile, the woman set down her cloth and cup to comply. From the hearth, she spooned stew and herbs into a bowl, added a hunk of bread, and set it before him. She poured a jug's sweet contents into a cup for him.

"First patrol, hon?" she asked. His cheeks turned red and he mumbled a reply before retreating to the nearest table. "What about you, love? Anything?" she asked of the Wood Elf, seated at the small table in the corner. He looked up from the book he was scrawling in, a furtive glance at the legion soldier.

"Er, yes. Same, I suppose…" he answered, a line between his brows. She carried a steaming wooden bowl and clay cup over to him, her skirts rustling to her nimble steps.

"Is this venison?" the soldier asked. A warm smile lit over her face and she looked at him; youthful naiveté hadn't yet been whittled away. Sympathy creased the corners of her eyes before vanishing.

"Of a surety; a hunter traded a night's stay for a few cuts. A good deal, if I do say so myself. Mutton gets tedious after a time." Setting the food and drink in front of the Bosmer, she rested a fist on her hip. "Anything else, love?" He looked her over, his eyes following the linen folds and dips, opened his mouth to speak, and then thought better of it. Reconsidering with a cleared throat, he tried again.

"A bed for the night? I haven't a deer to trade for it, though." A toothy grin broke out over his angular face. She chuckled, good humor writ over her plain features.

"Ten coin'll do for it, and I think it was a stag; he was rather proud of it," she replied. He chuckled and slid forward payment for room and food, before digging into the hearty stew. Returning to the counter, she took up the pitcher, and sashayed to the soldier. As she refilled his cup, he fumbled through his bulky armor. A token was produced, and he stared at it with unfocused blue eyes before holding it out to her.

"Just… send it to…" he mumbled; her hand covered his, a soft smile crinkling her eyes again.

"Send it for payment to the legion, I know, hon," she said before leaving the pitcher. She retreated to the counter. The fire crackled, its cozy music underlining the scraping of wooden spoons and the gurgle of mead. Soporific warmth and hazy smoke filled the room, a snug heaviness filled with the scent of roasted venison and root vegetables soaked in herbs and milk-and-flour thickened broth. Stirring the stew, she threw a glance over her shoulder at the Bosmer. "What brings you out this way?" she asked. He swallowed his mouthful before swiping his arm across his mouth.

"Guild work," he bragged, his chest expanding with pride. She nodded and gave him a teasing grin.

"Oh? Thieves?" His eyes widened and he slid a hasty look at the soldier. The Imperial scrubbed a hand over recently cropped blond hair, then down his face over his smooth chin. He frowned into his empty cup, his eyes blinking with difficulty. The Bosmer looked back at the woman, his eyes canting left before he replied.

"Uh, Fighter's. I know, I don't look the heavy armor type, but I'm handy with a blade," he said. She leaned across the counter, hand under her chin. His eyes swept over her flimsy blouse.

"Oh yeah? Scout?" she asked. His eyes flickered again, and he nodded absently. With a shake of his thoughts, he held out his bowl. She rose slowly before walking to him with a dancers grace, and collected it. Refilling the dish for him, she brought it back, the only sound the swish of her skirts. Silence lapsed again, companionable against the dark night. She went down into the storeroom behind the hearth, and the Bosmer returned to his meal. He pulled his book out and continued writing in it. He furrowed his brow in annoyance, and pulled a map out, studying it in comparison with his book with a muttered frown.

A thud behind him made him jump nearly out of his chair, and the publican poked her head out. He swung around, and saw that the legionary had passed out. The woman hurried over to him, easing his face out of the nearly empty bowl. She gave an apologetic smile to the Bosmer, using a cloth to wipe the inebriated Imperial's face clean.

"New soldiers don't hold their liquor too well," she drawled. He laughed, and returned to his map. She passed by him and her finger tapped the parchment. "You're here, the Blue Road; where are you headed, love?" she asked, the soldier's bowl in her other hand.

"Oh, just the Imperial City. I had some business in Cheydinhal. I'm just planning another, uh, journey. Chorrol's nice this time of year, right?" he replied. She smiled and nodded.

"Right. Then you're where you want to be." She looked down at the map, her brow furrowing. He cast her a glance, and she shrugged her thought away and took his bowl as well. "You'll find the farmers've just drunk the year's surplus away already, though. Should've gone there for Harvest's End; could've joined them and had some fun."

"I was, uh, busy that day," he answered. He folded the map and put it away, set on his course. He glanced over his shoulder at the soldier again, relief plain on his face. She returned, laying a hand on his arm. "Not fond of soldiers, love?" she asked, her voice warm and beguiling.

"Did some time in the Imperial Prison, so no," he answered, then frowned. His brow furrowed, but he shook his head, and she sat down across from him. Her green eyes met his impish brown, and he was pleased to see awe in hers.

"Oh my! But you managed to, to join the Fighter's Guild? I thought they didn't, um, didn't accept…" she flushed, and he couldn't help grinning.

"They don't." Her eyes widened, then she threw her head back and laughed, a vibrant sound.

"So you are a thief! Is that why you were imprisoned? You were caught?" she asked. He shook his head, mouth quirking into a rueful grin.

"More like that [&@%!] Lex rounded up anyone he suspected, guilty or not, and I wasn't quick enough," he admitted before taking another swallow. Still, the look she was giving him was full of admiration.

"But you've served your time?" she asked. It was his turn to laugh.

"Not exactly." He shifted, and a red glint came from his pack. He frowned at it, his face showing signs of irritation, and shifted again. She rose to retrieve the pitcher; a look in it led her to refilling it from a cask in the backroom. She returned and poured him some; his fingers brushed hers as she handed his cup to him.

"Were you the one that upset Lex?" she asked, pouring herself a cup and sipping from it, an enticing twinkle in her eyes.

"Well, yes. Usually it's the Grey Fox is who he fixates on, but I couldn't help needling him a little," he answered. He frowned again, looking at his mead. His face flushed, but there was an answering rosy glow on her cheeks. It made her rather pretty. He looked her over before adding, "Well, maybe a lot. More'n I was supposed to."

"How did you escape?" she asked, her voice full of reverence. He preened eyes dancing with mischief.

"Through great skill… and a good deal of luck," he admitted. "There's a sewer entrance outside the city, leads into the prison," he explained, taking a drink. She gaped.

"That's far more interesting than here. All I get are soldiers passing by. A traveler on an occasion, like yourself. Otherwise it's very dull," she made a face, a cute little grimace that wrinkled her nose, and took another sip.

"Well," he appeared to give it some thought, "We could make use of the bed." Her cheeks flamed, and she buried her face in the cup. He took another swallow from his, eyes focused on her. Hiding behind bay brown hair, she rose to stir the stew again. His eyes followed her, sweeping over her. She came back towards him, and he looked back at the mead. She walked behind him, utter silence and he couldn't place her until she leaned against him. Chills broke out over him at the soft press at his back. She swept aside his mahogany hair and kissed his cheek.

"The bed does sound intriguing," she whispered into his right ear with a lick at its tip; he shivered. "But Lex says hello." As he registered the remark, a blade pricked his ribs and slid between them. He choked and his eyes bulged. "Never underestimate a Captain who is wound too tight, love. They don't take kindly to being made fools of." The point speared his heart, and he collapsed onto the table. The dishes clattered to the floor, cups and jug shattering. The woman stood up, a bemused smile on her face. "And thank you for the tip," she added. She wiped her dagger onto his twitching body. She checked on the soldier, who snored heavily. A satisfied nod, and then she began searching the Bosmer.

She frowned at the large ruby necklace she found. She had seen it before, but couldn't place it. Odd for him to carry, but an added bonus for her. He had a few rings in his pack as well, gold, and a shortsword she found wanting. His map wasn't nearly as good as her own, but he'd been scribbling in his journal for awhile. She decided to pocket it, out of morbid curiosity, and then, after one more perusal of his pack, noticed a statuette. Living in Cheydinhal, it was familiar to her, and she gaped at his audacity before bursting into laughter. He was lucky its owner hadn't put out the plea to the Night Mother; it might not have requested a simple death. Pain may have been involved. Torture, even. She shivered.

She went to the hearth and began clearing out the stew. No point in burning the inn down or leaving behind evidence of her sleeping poisons she'd given the Imperial. Let the soldier think it was the mead. It would be a lesson to youthful drunkenness; the reprimand would stay with him, and she felt a fleeting sympathy for him. She checked once more on the true publican; the woman snored on her cot, but her life-beat was strong. The Imperial assassin carefully trickled more mead and draught down her throat to keep her asleep. Finally, she changed from the bloodied linens to her dark, fitted armor; she shredded the former and fed it to the fire before banking it down low.

One last trip to the dead Bosmer. She felt for his wound and coated her hand in his blood. With it, she yanked back his head and left a sanguine handprint his face and then the door before leaving. She smiled with satisfaction and headed for the stable. She checked on the sleeping horses, and noticed a pack on the Bosmer's chestnut, her fingers twitched in old habit, and she was at the saddle before she'd made the choice to move. A bow and some arrows, or disappointing quality. Supplies. Lockpicks she pocketed. Books carefully wrapped, and she claimed them as well with a cry of delight.

She left hay and water for his horse and soldier's bay, then went to her own. She led her mare away and swung into the saddle. One last look at the silent inn, shrouded in the forests shadows. She looked skyward, at the clouds that obscured the moons and stars, making it as dark as the Void. She closed her eyes to the chilling silence before vanishing into the night.

The title "Unfinished Business" has no relation to the Fighter's Guild quest of same name? What about "An Assassins Bleed"?

The first paragraph a little confusing for those who might forget that Bosmer are Wood-Elves. The first line indicates the Bosmer is in the interior, yet in the second line he's at the door. "Kindred" is too close, "an Imperial maid stood cleaning a cup" is simpler.
A "furtive glance" is better for a thief, it covers wary.

We know the Bosmer is updating his journal. Perhaps the maid glances on an interesting line e.g.: "Done a sterling job in avoiding any Imperial Assassins... Can I rest easy now?"

"Sashayed"? How about "strafed lithely"?

The bit about the venison stew/ hunter/ stag is padding. It's OK, but just "a bubbling rich and hearty stew" says it all.

Is the "real publican" (better than "true publican.") in another room? Best not to trickle any more mead down her throat for fear of awakening, just "remove all traces of the Alkanet/Mandrake infused mead from the jug on her side-table."

"She left hay and water for his horse and soldier's bay." She's a [&@%!]. Doesn't do nice things like that.

Moreover, is it implicit, by drugging the current occupants, that the assassin was expecting the Bosmer? Was merely upsetting Lex enough to warrant murder?

Chapter 2

It was once said that dying is easy, but that living is hard.

That has certainly been my experience – death comes easily enough as to be commonplace. Sickness, accidents, wars, age, wrath; everyday life leads inevitably to death. For without death, change, we stagnate within order.

It is an easy thing to bring about death. A knife's prick, a loosed arrow, a pinch of powder or the casting of ta spell. It is simple to kill. But living, now that's hard. It requires suffering and striving for the length of one's life. Perseverance in the everlasting hope that we shall achieve something beyond our present state.

And thus we hope for change. We crave it, the chance to go beyond.

Yet there are those who loathe deathbringers as foul. That when we end another's suffering and send their souls back into the Void, we do a wrong. They have compunctions against cold-blooded murder, but to butcher an animal is normal, and to kill on the battlefield is honorable.

My duty is as worthy as theirs. I am the dark side of the coin. A tool of chaos, cutting the rot away to enact necessary change, to cull the herd. But death is a necessity, the companion to life, the shadow to light.

Knowledge is the weapon of change; I am the instrument of chaos.

~

Masser and Secunda shone down, illuminating the Heartland into a patchwork of shadows and moonlight. The clop of horse step on the grass echoed into the boughs of the trees, but the rider gave it no mind. She could outmaneuver most beasts, and she was alert enough to avoid danger as a rule.

She rode at ease, relishing the cool night after a warm day, the fresh scent of evergreen and aspen after the smoke of the inn. She kept to the fringes of the woodland, along the winding ridge, enough to glimpse the road and her direction. Out beyond the vast distant lake, she could see the top of the White Gold Tower, glinting in the moonlight.

She leaned back to admire the sky, reaching out a leather-encased arm to trace the constellations. This was peace; a job completed, the satisfaction of a kill mingling with the solitude of a silent night.

She smiled, and sang under her breath,

"Strong Warrior charges
Steed prancing
Lady dancing"

On the heels of her chant, she calculated the day. Harvest's End had been four days ago. Or was it five?

She'd gotten the contract late in the night, after In the mood to celebrate what she had as a child, she'd taken full advantage to mingle with the good citizens of 'd left the Newland's Lodge. Rowdy under normal circumstances, given cause to drink, it the lodge had grown too much and she'd left as a courier had dashed in. She hadn't caught what gossip was shared, knowing only that it had brought a hush to the tavernthe Orcs and Dunmer. But, tired and light-headed from unaccustomed drink, she'd had enough and had returned to Sanctuary. There, she'd been given the contract in the early dawn hours. A contract for her alone, and from an unexpected person.

Sources had said that the Bosmer had intended to head to Cheydinhal on business, and then return to the Imperial City. A kill to be found, but quiet and out of the way. It had been easy to tail him, and to guess at his destination for the night; like her, he had avoided the main road. Thieves were easy to predict when you'd been one. And his horse had been flash enough to notice in amongst the trees. A pretty chestnut, ill suited to the forest shadows.

Still, there were inns when one knew where to look, and the publican was easy to lure into a drink. Easy to mimic, too.

A simple contract, and now she was finding herself wondering what news had been brought to Cheydinhal staggering enough to make drunken drunks Orcs and Dunmer go silent.

If she was lucky, she might return in time for Tales and Tallows, one of her favorite celebrations. She enjoyed giving people cause to fear the dark night. She had been good at it as a child, but frightening adults brought a whole new set of thrills.

She guided her bay mare around mossy rocks, and corrected her course. Away from the road now, north towards the mountains.

Her thoughts returned to the find she'd made, that amulet and the journal. Though she could summon enough light to see by, it would not do to draw notice when she wanted to avoid any possible connection to the inn. She would have to wait until she arrived at the Sanctuary.

"Lord advancing
Through the night."

She sang out again before spurring her horse bay out of its complacent walk. She was feeling tired now, the fade of the thrill, and while she knew her horse would get her to safety, she didn't want to sleep until she reached Sanctuary.

The woodland rose steeply, the Heartland giving way to the northern edge of the Nibenay Basin, the trees denser. Here she kept a sharper eye out, for the way was darker, and goblins often were near the mines in the foothills. Her sister had once mentioned having to root them out, but they kept returning to assault the miners.

Night faded to dawn, the bright flame banding across the horizon. She glanced around, noting landmarks. There, north to her was the dirt track that led to the back entrance of the city, and past the mines, for there was Lake Arrius.

No one was around, and with the ease of long practice and balance on her mount, she eased out of the leathers she wore and into the skirt and blouse she wore around the City. She felt no need to be armored so close to the city, not when she could gallop to the walls and cry out for help, a poor, innocent certainly wouldn't do to change in view of the guards. While they might enjoy the show, she didn't need them to see what she was changing from.

And there, there was the castle, well in sight. She slowed her horse to a walk again, watching the sun rising, lighting the crumbling tops of the old fort up the ridge east of the city. She saw several flowers in bloom along the road, and dismounted to pick them. Potions were always useful, and it led her at a slow pace to the gate. She pulled her pack off, stuffing leaves and petals into it with a nod at the sleepy guard. She looked around. At the gate, she dismounted. There was always a child eager for coin, and she held one up with a bright smile.

"See that Kat gets taken care of proper, or I will find you," she said. He yawned, and took both coin and horse. and she watched the sleepy boy take her horse to the stables whileShe watched them until they were out of sight, then she pushed open the gates.

The new light touched the chapel's stained glass windows, sending jewel-bright colors to sparkle on the river that cut the city in two. She nodded to the other guard on duty, just as ready for his bed as the other, and slipped a coin into the beggar's hand that approached. She saw no one else up and about yet, and walked past the swaying willow into the graveyard.

A small smile on her face, she touched the tombstones she passed. Amongst the dead, she again found renewed appreciation for her own life, such that it was. She didn't know these dead, but one grave was much like another, and without going to Chorrol, it was the closest she could get to her mother.

Her eyes downcast, she chose one of the stones, and knelt to leave one of the flowers. A primrose, for luck, though she was by uneven turns both blessed and cursed. A brief look over her shoulder told her she was out of sight of the gate guard, and a sweeping glance showed no one in sight. She rose, and exited the graveyard.

At the steps of the chapel, she paused, for the only person in sight was yet another guard, across the statue of Arkay, standing outside one of the purple-roofed homes. She frowned, wondering why he was there. He was, however, covering a yawn and not looking her way. She was beginning to yawn herself, and narrowed her eyes at the perpetrator.

She darted across the street to the ramshackle house, it's stone not near as neat as the others nearby, boards covering its windows and the wood of its structure showing decay. It brought a smile to her face, that so near the chapel was the Sanctuary. A shrine of death and a shrine of life. She wondered if it had been done on purpose, and whether, if you dug through the assassin's lair, you would come into the undercroft.

No one saw her approach the well, and she slipped in with practiced ease. Broad, verdant Cheydinhal spread before her, the winding river cutting the city n two. Wood and stone rose, the grand cathedral dwarfing them. The good citizens, surly Orcs and Dunmer immigrants, were just beginning to awaken for the day, and she wove her way through them. There was a downcast air to everyone that nagged at her, but she shrugged it off. She reached the well and slipped down it into the Sanctuary.

The slow creak of old bones and leather greeted her, and she smiled. She was home. In the corner, Teinaava had his reptilian nose in a book.

Her first stop was the living quarters to sort through the things that she wanted to keep. At the corner table, she saw a familiar blond head with an unfamiliar crimson, chatting with her usual humor. She knelt before her chest and took out her key, then paused as she noticed a new scratch against the lock. She sighed, and opened the chest. She studied the contents.

Books filled most of it; spare clothing, her alchemy set and supplies the remainder. On top, her notes were in disarray. She threw a glare towards the table, but the stone pillars were in the way.

There was a fine line between borrowing and stealing.

She rearranged her belongings and added her crop of alchemy goods, the journal and the amulet to it. It glinted in the light, and she began to suspect it not as a ruby, but a different stone entirely. A mystery to be solved later.

Nothing else was worth keeping, although she hadn't yet figured out what to do with the statuette. Rather than carry it around and get fingered for it, she set it in her chest and managed to close the lid. She may just need to sell some of her books to make room.

Or she could find a larger chest.

Leaving her pack beside the chest, she crept along the pillars to eye the far table. When she wanted to, she could cross cobblestones in clogs and make not a sound. There were few she could not sneak up on, although, alas, the opposite was not always true. Antoinetta's chatter to the newcomer drowned out her footstepsdistracted him from the approaching assassin, and she swept up behind the Breton to lay her dagger against her slim throat.

"Dearest Sister. If I find that you have touched my things again, I shall begin taking your fingers for each violation. Are we quite clear?" she asked, smiling against Antoinetta's cheek. The male Dunmer across from her gaped, and the young woman began laughing, her own knife cutting into an apple.

"Welcome back! Sister, look at our newest Brother! Novor, this is dear, sweet Joss," she said, gesturing with her knife, an apple slice stuck to it. Joss swept a look over him; he looked surprised at her blatant threat, but quickly smiled at the introduction.

"Greetings! I am pleased to-"

"Lucien chose him?" she asked, looking at Antoinetta. Something about the overly bright gleam in his red eyes did not sit well with her, either too eager or too alert.

"He did," the Dunmer answered firmly. "He sent me to kill an old man at the-"

"To be sure, a difficult contract," she cut him off, straightening away from them. "Is M'raaj-Dar around?" she asked. Antoinetta nodded, taking a bite of her apple.

"Training, I think. Said something about a smell in the air when he left." With a final flat look at Novor, Joss left, grabbing her pack on her way out. She would never find sleep with Antoinetta's talk and a stranger present. Opening the door, she threw a last threat at the Breton.

"I mean it, Sister. I will flay them off of you." The door shut on the woman's laughter. Joss stooped to pat Schemer before cutting across the main room to the other chamber.

Within, an Orc was bashing a practice dummy into splinters while a Khajiit flung ice at his own target. She stopped by the pillar to watch, crossing her arms. When he ran out of Magicka, he turned to glance at her. It was difficult to read through the fur, but the flat look of his ears suggested annoyance. As she usually got on quite well with him, she guessed that the irritation was not directed at her.

He went to sit on one of the barrels across from her.

"I'd say that the dummy is well and truly iced over; one of Gogron's hits ought to shatter it," she remarked as he opened a potion bottle. He snorted and took a swig before replying.

"Have you seen our newest member?" he asked in his husky voice. She lifted a shoulder in a shrug digging into her own pack. Sleep might not be for awhile, and she needed a refresher for the moment.

"Met; he seems to be getting on well with Antoinetta." She heard the slightest growl coming from him before he took another swallow.

"He is a foul-smelling ape unworthy of licking my boots," he rumbled.

"I don't see why Lucien allowed another member here, when people have been getting killed. And isn't our Sanctuary full? Gogron, Telaenrdil, Antoinetta, Mathieu-"

"Was advanced; he is here no more," the Khajiit said before draining the last of his potion. Refreshed, he rose while Joss digested the news, sipping hers.

It chilled her; Mathieu was like some of the Brotherhood that delighted too much in their work, just this side of insanity. Or in his case, possibly beyond. His eyes gave her the creeps, though he'd always been polite and quiet. Then again, wasn't it always the quiet ones?

"My point still stands."

M'raaj-Dar nodded his agreement, and the two shared a look of mutual suffering. He nodded at her pack. "Anything to sell?" he asked.

She shook her head, finishing off her potion. "No, nothing traceable, so I'm fine. What about you? Anything you need a fence for?"

He brought out a bag heavy with miscellany from the goods assassins 'acquired'. They haggled over her cut of the sale of goods, with her settling for a quarter share of the profits. Once they finished, she looked over his store.

"Do you need more poisons? I can mix some up for you," she asked. He nodded again.

"Yes, that whelp bought the last batch."

She thought over her personal supplies, and made a mental note to stop by Borba's to see if she had the additional ingredients she would need.

"I have a shipment you might like." His clawed hands held out an amulet. She studied its jade surface, noted the enchantment, and tallied it to several hundred gold pieces before looking back at him. "The Eye of Sithis, to help you detect others around you."

She wanted it. It was a pretty piece, and mysticism wasn't her strong suit, though she was better with it than she was with some other schools. She was a good judge of her environment, but on a job, every little bit helped when the slightest error could mean death. Still, though she had acquired enough gold, she was hesitant to spend it on the piece.

She kept her face straight, and shrugged. "It's nice."

M'raaj-Dar studied her before flashing her a toothy grin. "Might offer it for 300, if you don't charge for the potions."

She lost her bid for stoicismapathy, cried out in delight, and flung herself at him. Only familiarity and discipline kept him from freezing her, but she saw his fingers twitch in the beginnings of a spell. She kissed his furred cheek and laid claim to the amulet. One arm still slung over his shoulders, she dangled it between them and grinned. "Mraaj'Dar, my love, you are too good to me."

He extricated himself from her, grumbling that she was behaving too much like Antoinetta. She chuckled and painstakingly counted out the coins. They made a nice pile on the barrel, and her bag felt woefully lighter afterwards. He swept them into his bag while she admired the jade; it was the green of a forest in shadow, a good match.

Their business finished, she decided that she had one more stop before she got to work on the potions. Maybe by the time she finished, she would be able to find a bed. The inn always had nice ones, and would be quiet at any time of day.

Metal clanged towards them, and Gogron loomed over both of them. "Heh, hey Joss. Have you heard the latest?" he asked. She waved a hand at him.

"I need to go see Ocheeva." She favored him with a smile; while they differed in their approach to their work, she didn't mind the brute. "I'll hear it all later."

She shouldered her pack and left the training room. She slipped the necklace on, chill against her skin and sending ghost-shivers through her.

Approaching the Argonian's room, she noticed that one of the doors was already open. She set down her bag and knocked on the ancient doors – wondering, as always, who they had been built to keep out, and whether they'd succeeded. Ocheeva was seated at her desk, writing, but looked up at the knock.

"Joss, greetings. Come in," she rasped. Argonians were hard to read, but between the relaxed mouth and eyes, Joss thought she was pleased to see her. No teeth bared was always a good sign among either of the beast races.

She stepped in, noting that it was chillier than usual, and that a blue haze surrounded Ocheeva. Must be the enchantment; she would have to adjust to the vision change. The haze seemed on the edge of her vision as well, but surely it didn't extend as far as Vicente?

"Your contract?"

"Dead, in an inn, off the road," Joss answered, wondering at the chill that permeated the room. Was it the coming of autumn and winter that made the usually cool structure even colder, or the nagging sensation that someone else was in the room, brought on by the enchantment?.

"Excellent. You carried out the contract well; Sithis is appeasedpleased, and you have earned your reward." She tapped a small bag; the clink of coins indicated a bonus. Studying the bag, she thought it might balance out her purchase, at the very least. "Did you, by chance, determine how Faldir escaped the Prison?" she asked. Joss smirked.

"He said something about a sewer entrance into the Prison, happened to be in his cell." A gleam entered Ocheeva's eyes, and Joss guessed that the information would find a use.

"Wonderful. Ah, and you've earned a promotion. Congratulations, Eliminator."

Smiling, Joss rocked on her feet, and clasped her hands behind her back. "Any new jobs for me?"

Ocheeva frowned, glancing at her parchment. "I'm afraid not. The last contract I had went to Novor."

Joss clenched her hidden fists briefly in irritation. "Well, I guess I'll go visit my other family, then," she said, keeping her voice light.

"I have work for you," a deep, chilling voice spoke from behind her. She spun, her dagger rasping out even as she registered who had spoken. Shrouded in the finest of black robes, the Imperial watched her from behind the door.

"Lucien," she acknowledged. Her heart pounded until it felt about to burst from her chest. She sheathed her dagger, cheeks flaming in embarrassment. Some assassin she was; she should have trusted the enchantment.

"Fear, dearest Sister?" he asked. His voice sent shudders through her, a reminder of their first encounter.

"You startled me is all, Lucien," she answered, working to keep her voice casual.

.

He approached, without not even a whisper from the robes, and she stepped back. Wrath of Sithis be damned; Lucien was the only one in this place that could terrify her so thoroughly, and she suspected that he was well aware of it. Every nerve was tingling at his presence, an odd, exhilarating dread that swept through her better than any potion she knew of. She certainly was no longer tired..

"Indeed." He fingered her amulet, a smirk crossing his shadowed face. She flushed deeper, her breath catching. "I have a contract that requires subtlety. And sadly, does not require a murder. Think you can manage some… restraint?" he asked.

She swallowed. "Of course. What is it?"

"Count Indarys is forgetting his place. The Brotherhood needs you to remind him what it means to fear Sithis." His dark eyes met hers, and she remembered the one and only time she'd failed a contract. She shivered again. So much for nonchalance.

"I can do that."

He stepped back, and she found that there was more air in her personal sphere.

"Ocheeva will give you the details." With that, he stepped to the door. He paused, then said over his shoulder. "It suits you." The air around him shimmered and he vanished from sight, making not a sound on the cold stone on the stone blocks.

Joss wasn't sure whether he'd meant the amulet or her fear.

Ocheeva's chuckle woke her from her fixation. "You look like a mark that's been Illuminated," she said.

"That's about right," Joss mumbled, shaking herself. Even after all their encounters, he still inspired terror in her.

"You do not need to kill anyone for this contract. You need to bribe the Count, and frighten him enough to keep silent but do not kill him. How you go about it is up to you But remember: subtlety."

"I'm not Gogron, Ocheeva; discretion is my specialty."

Joss pocketed the gold, her pay and the bribe, before leaving. M'raaj-Dar wasn't going anywhere, and could wait for the potions. A day or two wouldn't hurt.

Fully awake, she decided that she would get started, formulate a plan, look around the castle for the best way to get to the Count.

She wasn't sure if it was the thrill of a contract, or the pride of receiving one from Lucien personally that so energized her, but she figured that she could sleep later.

And hadn't someone once said that you could sleep when you were dead?

M'raaj-Dar wasn't going anywhere, and could wait for the potions. A day or two wouldn't hurt.

She smiled at how appropriate the thought was, and at an earlier one. as she remembered her earlier thought. Soon would be Tales and Tallows

She would give the Count a reason to fear the night.

Just needs a touch-up.
"and she slipped in with practiced ease." may as well be merged into the last sentence of the paragraph.
Proof-reading: a couple of conjoined words

I remember my first real death. The first time I provided death to another person, not a farm animal or game.

It was my mother, and it did not gain me entrance to the Brotherhood, although perhaps it started me on the path.

A sickness had passed through our family like a storm, but my mother had been an alchemist, once. Still dabbled in it, and so kept death at bay.

Until she got sick herself, and ran out of the vital ingredient. By then, it was her and little Felicia. Papa chose to take my brothers and sisters, lest they fall ill again, down to Chorrol and the chapel for the healer.

But time was short.

Mama told me how to make enough for Felicia, and then showed me how to make a special draught. She was calm, and I think it helped. I hold to that memory every time. That peace, knowing that her death held a purpose. Cold, calm, still. A serene acceptance.

I was nearly 10, and I watched with her through the long night. If I wept, I do not recall.

~

Casually clothed, Joss blended well into the morning crowd that congregated outside the chapel. She could hear their chatter over the river’s babble, and was unsure as to which held meaning. She ignored the gossip and skirted around the statue, only to be accosted by a guard outside a home.

"Stand clear, this property has been seized and is now sealed until further notice. Good day." She stared at him, bobbed a curtsy, and made her way up to the castle; she stopped just outside to stow her pack.

Petitioners were common, and she kept her pace slow and unhurried. Her watchful eye picked out the mannerisms, and she adapted to them, easy as breathing. She was plain enough that the guards eyes passed over her without a pause, and she walked into the castle, her eyes scanning the lush garden in the entrance. Ahead, her amulet told her the Count was full today. Odd for so many, and there was a fear in the undercurrent of the voices.

She hung back to watch, hovering near the bookcases, years of thieving and killing telling her the best way to approach the Count, avoid the guards, or slip through forbidden doors. She counted the soldiers and servants, and made note of their patterns.

People came and went, while she studied the layout and paced the walls to gauge distance. The stairs obviously led to the private quarters; that door, to the Great Hall, that one, the bedroom of an old guild contact. She wondered what hidden passages this castle might possess. Castles were notorious for dank, dark paths, clandestine walkways, and quick, secret escape routes; experience with Leyawiin had taught her that. Curiosity begged of her to find the castle’s secrets and peruse its mysteries.

She turned her gaze instead to the Count himself. A Dunmer clad in blue velvit, he came across to her as competent, arrogant, and not a mer to be trifled with nor easily intimidated. A Chameleon spell and a whispered warning wouldn’t cut it with him. She racked her memory for what else she had gleaned about him in her time in Cheydinhal.

He was Hlaalu, which wouldn’t have meant anything to her except that she’d asked Vicente once before. So she knew that, as a member of that House, he would be clever, keen on coin, and ruthless. Rumor held that he’d murdered his pretty wife, an accident with the stairs, whose bust currently resided in her chest in Sanctuary. She smiled to herself over the irony.

On closer inspection of that thought, however, was the remembrance of his known indulgence in his foolhardy son. A mer that devoted would be so with a wife as well, unless she’d committed a grievous crime. He was aging, she had not been; he was intemperate and said to be a womanize, yet was visibly fond of his sole living kin.

She dwelled on this, sorting hearsay with what she could see, and comparing that with observed and reasonable behavior. She came to the conclusion that whatever she did, it must be carefully done. He would not be forgiving if she failed to truly frighten him.

And she doubted Lucien would be pleased with her folly were she caught. He had only interfered once before, and the punishment had served to teach her adequate caution.

The voices of the crowd washed over her, and she saw the noble prat enter the court. Gleaming steel rang as he preened and strode through the throng. He approached his father, and eloquent words fell inarticulately from his lips, and she cringed from her vantage point.

She could threaten the Count, she supposed. Show him that the Dark Brotherhood knew his weaknesses and could get to him. It might work, but she had her doubts as to a simple threat being enough. He had been visited before; whatever she did would have to hit home with him.

She mingled with the crowd, pushing closer for a better view of the Count and son. She watched their interaction, then back towards the bookshelves. An idea was forming in her mind, hazy but unsatisfactory.

The crowd jostled her, and she knocked over silverware on a nearby table. Water drenched her skirt and a crumbled copy of the Courier. She cursed, accusing the offender of anatomically implausible parentage before kneeling to clean up the mess.

“Stop, thief,” a guard’s voice said, sloth and arrogance lacing his tone. She inwardly began cursing the petitioner again, herself, and the world at large. She carefully schooled her face into innocent bewilderment before looking up.
A Breton officer, the Captain of the Guard no less, loomed above her, and in any other place she might have taken advantage of their position.

She held up the fallen dishware. “Sir? I was picking these up, clumsy I am,” she drawled, the cringed inwardly at herself. Too much of the Weald in that, not enough foothills, too out of place.

His eyes raked her. “You were stealing. And loitering. Pay a fine of 30 gold, or I’ll slap you in irons,” he demanded, his own words colored with the cultured tones of High Rock. Her shocked gape was unfeigned; stealing silverware never earned more than a dozen septims, and she’d never heard of a fine for loitering!

She’d paid her due in the past, when she’d been honestly caught. She felt it to be tolerable punishment for being careless. This was another matter entirely.

“I-I’m sorry, sir, I don’t… don’t have that much,” she stammered, moving her affected accent closer to that of the locals. His gauntleted hand viced around her arm, yanking her to her feet. He searched her and she went cold. In that chill, silent place inside her, the assassin began tallying up the bruises and gropes, weighing them.

“Pathetic. Well then,” he said, pocketing the few gold she had kept on her. Just enough for such an occasion: too little, and there’d be suspicion; too much, and people got greedy. He smirked. “I suppose it’s a trip to the dungeons for you, then.”

She withdrew her earlier solution. This was too familiar to him, and the dungeons would not be a good place to be in, not with other guards, chains, and bars to deal with as well. A growing horror filled her, not for herself, but for others who might have fallen victim. In her mind, the scales’ balance tilted precariously. Her eyes caught the glint of jewelry and the rich cut of his doublet beneath the armor, and she slowly smiled to herself.

Too many teeth, but he wasn’t looking at her face.

She pulled at her Magicka, sending it out of her and into him through his touch. Calm settled over him, his grip loosening and his face relaxing. She dropped her voice and the smile, recalling her sister’s lessons on beguiling men. She looked down at the ground.

“You’re hurting me,” she whispered; he leaned closer to hear, and with her spell in place, let her go. “I can pay you proper… later,” she said, sweeping her eyes up to look at him through her eyelashes. His jaw slackened. She widened her eyes into charming innocence. “Promise.”

He gawked, and she stepped back into the crowd.

Another spell, and she faded from sight. She turned and ran. She was angrier than she should have been, at herself for her stupidity, and at him. She was an murderer; she shouldn’t care. Cold-hearted. Cut-throat. Killer.

But this close to home, it was a threat. And she couldn’t stop herself from caring. Never had been able to.
Keeping herself out of sight, she found her pack and quickly changed from blouse and wet skirt into patched vest and leather leggings. Pulling out her lockpicks, she twisted her hair into a hasty twist. Cara, second eldest, had called it a lover’s knot.

Scooping some dirt, Joss brushed it over her face, hands, and hair. She brushed it heavy beneath her cheekbones and along her jawline, casting sharper angles to her features. Leaves in her hair, and the short bow she slung over her shoulder from her pack finalized the effect of having come from the forest.

Skirting the wall, she rejoined the visible world near the gate. If the guard sought the woman from court, they wouldn’t expect an archer fresh from the wilds.

The day was still early, and she would need to wait until night to act, in any case. She needed the time to think and plan out her contract. She also needed to clear her head and decide whether the guard was worth her time.
She stopped at Borba’s, discussing with the Orc the state of nearby landmarks. The Desolate Mine was overrun by goblins, and the Fighter’s Guild was sending a shipment of weapons, and warriors, to deal with it. Of course, it would be nice if the Count raided their lairs. Wasn’t there an Ayleid ruin east of the city? Yes, in the mountains…

She sold a few things she’d gathered along her travels, incidental objects, and bought several ingredients. She browsed the bookstore, and added a book on lock-picking to her collection; talking with Mach-Na about the mutual hatred between the natives and the immigrants gave her added insight into the Count. He was a ‘no-name trader’ with good connections, the only non-Imperial Count; she tucked the information away, and left.

Outside in the sunlight, she rummaged in her pack to shift things around, and found a damp, wrinkled paper. Drawing it out, she realized that she must have picked up the wrinkled Courier by mistake.

She ambled towards the island, trying to read the paper. Most of the ink had run, but the words she caught froze her in place better than one of M’raaj-Dar’s spell.

Assassination! SPECIAL EDITION! EMPEROR AND HEIRS ASSASSINATED!

She gripped the rails of the bridge, wood digging splinters into her palm. She scanned the words, though little was readable. What she could read was just history of the emperor. Her breath caught, and she racked her memory for hints at whether the Brotherhood was at work. Such an important contract, surely there’d have been some hint.
She eased when she realized that there hadn’t been anything unusual within her Family that would indicate something of this magnitude.

Though she was no longer a dutiful Imperial, she had been raised proper, and this news rocked her. Uriel Septim VII had been emperor her entire life. Who would rule? Could the Council hold the Empire together? Or would it all fall, tumbling down into a destructive down-spiral?

She firmly believed that there was a balance, between life and death, order and chaos, Aedra and Daedra. As a tool of Sithis, she kept the order and life from stagnating, and left the gods to their followers. But what would happen when there was too much chaos, too much death? Would the scales be thrown so far off balance that it would echo on into the decades or centuries to come? Who knew what effects would come of this!

On a more personal, financial note: who would hire an assassin when death walked freely?

“Flyyyin'... flyyin' in the skyyyy.... cliff racer flys so high....” an off-pitch voice sang, and she became drenched in alcohol fumes. She cringed at the singing, and gagged at the smell of street living that overcame her.

She turned, and scowled at the offender. He was familiar, a Dunmer farmer, and she thought he owned one of homes over by the Chapel. Across from Sanctuary, that was it. What, she wondered, was he doing, so filthy and ragged? Why was he determined to violate her ears?

And what in Sithis’ name was a cliffracer?

She turned back to the Courier, only to find it floating away on the river. She sighed, and started to run a hand through her dark hair, then stopped when she realized it would undo her twist.

Wait and see. Patience and discipline were key, as Lucien had so diligently taught her. Time would give her answers.
She continued her meander, making a detour back to Sanctuary for her equipment, before continuing through the city. Plots formed and fell apart in her mind, half a dozen plausible but inadequate strategies. Paralyze him in his sleep, give a whispered warning and a dagger to the throat. Leave something frighteningly gruesome in his chambers. A series of ‘accidents’ to make a point and set his nerves on edge. Grotesque reminders of his late wife.

She circled the statue of Arkay before taking a seat at its base, contemplating the Aedra. None of her ideas fit, like tumblers unwilling to stay. The Divine held no answers, not that she’d expected any.

Two Dunmer were arguing nearby, the drunk and a woman. She recognized them, and frowned as the former squared his shoulders and approached, with the swagger of the inebriated. He confronted the guard she’d met earlier, outside what must be the mer’s house.

“This is my house! Get out of the way… move, I say!" the drunk demanded. She watched, curious.

A sigh. "Sir, this property has been seized by his lordship, the Count of Cheydinhal. Leave immediately."

The farmer only got angrier: "I said move! Or by my ancestors I'll put you on the ground with a split lip!" Joss cringed; it was the wrong sort of reply, but she was surprised that the guard only seemed bored.

"Sir, I must warn you that threatening a city guardsman is an offense punishable by a fine of no less than 50 gold. Pay or be jailed." Joss’ eyebrows shot towards her hairline; 50 gold? For a threat? He might as well ask for an outright assault; it'd be a smaller fine.

The Dunmer seemed to be thinking the same thing, if he was even thinking in his fetid state. "You s'wit! How dare you! How dare you! Ulrich be damned! He can take his fine and stuff it up his backside!" She wondered what a s’wit was, and missed the guard’s reply. She came to her senses as the drunk attacked with a dagger –a dagger, against a city guard, in broad daylight?!- and scrambled to her feet.

Pressed against the sun-warmed marble, metal flashed in an ugly dance of steel and blood. The mer fell. Crimson slowly pooled at the base of Arkay’s statue, oddly bright in the full sun. The guard was speaking.

“You saw what happened, I had no choice. Aldos attacked first, and I had to defend myself. If you don't like it, take it up with Ulrich."

She looked at him, rage smoky hot inside her. It was an unworthy kill, pointless and unneeded. Worse than even Gogron’s bluntness. The guard still looked uninterested; this had been an inconvenience, a nuisance.

The dead mer’s companion, the woman, was cursing and screaming obscenities. Joss stared at her, then at the guard. She looked from the blood and death to the impassive statue. Arkay, god of the funeral rites and burials, of the dead. How symbolic. How absolutely appropriate.

In her mind, the tumblers finally fell into place.


The rest of the day was spent gossiping with the Orcs and Dunmer, visiting the tavern, and pretending to get roaring drunk. It was easy to fake, and rather fun to do. Had she heard about the Mage’s Guild? The guild hall leader, killing recruits! In the well, no less! And the famed painter, missing! Of course, taxes were much too high and the guards never around when you actually needed them…

In her dealings, she had heard the whole range of Ulrich Leland’s corruption, a soul just begging for the void. She heard of absurd fines, and the particulars of the late mer. His late wife, his drunken grief. She understood it well, and finally placed her anger. It reminded her too much of Papa.

She heard of the guards who followed Ulrich’s glorious example, and she dearly hoped they would continue to do so. Let them watch, and learn, and take heed. She nodded at all of it, the sympathetic listener to their intoxicated ramblings, and stored it away.

She made her preparations.

She found time to wash the ‘road dust’ from her face, and mix up the potions while she waited. A woodaxe went missing. A few articles of clothing. A fine bottle of Surilie’s wine.

And she waited. Waited for Tales and Tallows. Waited for shifts to change, for one last drink before turning in.
When Ulrich entered his quarters, the room was already lit with candles. She leaned against the bedpost, bottle in hand. He stopped in the doorway, eyes focusing with careful effort on her; he’d been drinking with the others, and was just a tad dizzy. He took in the flimsy blouse, baring her shoulder, the trailing ties of her bodice, the slit she’d cut into her skirt, a scandalous glimpse of leg. He blinked and roused himself.

Her head was down, bashfully so, and his eyes were not on her face, and so he did not see her cast her spell. It made him set aside any lingering suspicion over her presence and their earlier encounter.

It drew him closer, and she looked up, a ready blush spreading over her cheeks. “I said I would pay…” she said, holding up the bottle. A leering smirk settled on his face, and he closed the door. He approached slowly, and laid claim to it. His other hand grabbed her arm. A favored tactic, it seemed.

“So you did,” he said, then held the bottle to her. Her eyes met his, hesitant, before she took a swallow. He tilted it too much, and it spilled plastering the top of her blouse to her chest. She sputtered and jerked back.

He laughed and took a swallow. He looked her over again. She fidgeted, her eyes traipsing around the room. He took another drink, then set it down.

Her amulet told her the guards below were in their beds, but beyond that she could only hear their sounds as they settled down for the night. She waited, letting him make the first move while she made a show of hesitation, toying with her skirt.

It came with a kiss, brutal and biting as she’d expected. Punishment for earlier; her spell had drawn him in, but hadn’t soothed his earlier indignation.

She cried out, and shook, and he pulled back with a laugh. Inside, her heart grew cold and patient, tracking his movements.

He pulled off his chainmail, and the doublet he wore beneath. Her eyes skimmed his bare torso, keeping them wide and afraid. “Go on, then,” he ordered. Obediently she began to untie the laces of her bodice, fumbling with shaky fingers.

He picked up the bottle and took another long swallow, and she pulled the bodice away. His boots and gauntlets came next, leaving only his damnable greaves. She missed his next words, focused on the snores from the other room. Steady, and rumbling, heavily dosed; the violet haze from the amulet indicated no large movements.

He came forward, and she stifled her irritation that his leggings remained. His hand traced her jawline, down her neck and stopped at the amulet. He took a long swig from the bottle, and lifted the jade with his finger.

“’S pretty,” he slurred, mimicking without knowing her last encounter with Lucien. She gave a fleeting, shy smile, trying not to smirk; he was nothing, a ham-fisted fool to the icy, keen edge of the Silencer. She raised her eyes to meet his, letting her lip quiver. Fear? Desire? Or amusement?

His hands grabbed hers, hard, and led them to the ties that held up his greaves. She tugged at them, uncertain and reluctant in the loosening, pulling more than necessary. They fell from his slim hips, a clinking pool around his ankles.

She yanked her hands back and balled them against her skirt. She fidgeted with the linen folds, looking down.
He kicked the greaves away, struggling to get his feet untangled. She watched him, and from the slit in her skirt, she drew forth the length of ebony. Cold and sharp, she held it hidden in the folds.

He reached for her, and she struck.

Once, the inner thigh left gaping, a red mouth bared to the bone.

Twice, the other side, her strike tearing through the flesh.

He stared, a comical expression of disbelief; the initial slice had not yet registered. Her other hand shoved her bodice into his mouth as the pain struck, and his keening howl was muffled. A Silence spell kept it from leaving the room.

His hands fumbled at the wounds, blood pouring from the torn veins in rivulets to flood the floor. His eyes met hers, and she did not fidget. He reached for her, scrabbled at her blouse, tearing it in his fruitless struggle.

She stared, her face devoid of any expression. Distant and tranquil; this death held purpose. He stopped, stumbling back. Then, slowly, she smiled, and pursed her lips, blowing a kiss at him. “For Sithis.”

He collapsed.

She looked him over, then down at her bloodied clothes. The easy part was done. She could leave the room as it was, but she wanted to ensure that every guard got her message.

She walked over to the wardrobe, opened it, and surveyed the contents. Clothing, rich brocade and soft velvet and fine linens. With one hand, she pulled each out; with the other, she slashed and discarded them.

She pulled out the silverware and jewelry, and piled them in the middle of the room. Pulling her pack from beneath the bed, she withdrew the woodaxe and chopped the precious metals into irregular pieces.

Detached and composed, she turned to the corpse.

Chopping wood wasn’t about strength. It was about using the motion of the swing to force the wedge of the ax head through the grain. She’d chopped firewood all her life. In one swift motion, she swung the woodaxe up over her head into an arc. Down with bent knees, she continued the motion, adding her weight to the force.

The axe sliced through skin and muscle, and only stopped at thick bone.

She aimed, and chopped. Hewed until the head came loose. There wasn’t much blood, as most had already drained out of him.

One more job for the woodaxe, and with it she hacked through the chainmail, negating the emblem of Cheydinhal.
Bloodying her hands, she left the mark on the wall before stripping out of her clothes. She wrapped the head in the ruined linens and cleaned her hands. Into her shrouded armor, she collected the letter she’d found in his things, and left the gold, though it ran against her twitchy fingers. It felt wrong to leave good coin behind, but in this moment, she was not a thief.

She gave the room one final look.

On the floor, a pile of excellent rags, bits of costly metals, and a headless, disgraced body. The mark on the wall. Perfect. Not subtle, perhaps a tad elaborate – some that lacked artistry and theatrics might say overkill – but the message was unmistakable.

Cast in shadows, she slipped out of the barracks and into the castle proper. To the Knight of the Thorn’s room, to collect a trinket or two, and then to the Count’s own chamber.

On his desk, she was disappointed to see that he had not a set of scales. Onto surface she set the head, its letter in its mouth, and across from it she placed the bribe, a signet ring, and a medallion. In the space between, she used the Count’s ink to press a dark, solid handprint.

If he didn’t get it, she’d return to clarify things for him.


Dawn found her climbing into her rented room. She shed her armor and slipped into bed. She was exhausted, and the detachment was fading, leaving her languid and thrilled with her achievement. She needed sleep.

The sun was halfway to noon when she rose. She raked her hair up and out, making it truly disheveled. She rubbed her eyes until they were red, and squinted around the room. She needed a bath, but that could wait. She dragged on the leathers and vest, stowing her armor into her pack, and plodded out of the room, down the stairs. The Dunmer proprietress looked at her, and chuckled.

“You led the boys in quite a round last night,” Dervera said. Joss glared at her with bleary eyes, and the mer shook her head. “I might have a cure if you want,” she offered. Joss dropped herself onto a stool.

“Never works. Hot water an’ breakfast,” she grumbled. She pulled out a packet of pre-mixed herbs, peered at it, and dragged a copy of the Courier over. While steeping the packet in the mug presented, she skimmed over the Legion’s failed attempts at catching the Grey Fox. She let a crooked smile slip.

She had met him. Once. She couldn’t remember what he looked like, but she knew the Legion would never catch him.

The rest was rubbish written to attract readers, and she set it aside in favor of the tea and food. Both served to refresh her fatigue, and she relaxed the squint and affected hangover.

The door opened, and two guards came in. They looked green and pale, and began their day quite well with a bottle of brandy. Joss silently applauded their choice. She kept her head down as they spoke.

“Can’t believe it…”

“The strength it musta taken t’ do that?”

“Think it was the Orum gang?”

“No, idiot. Didn’t you see the mark?”

“Couldn’t get in the door. Just saw a glimpse of… you know…”

“Yeah.”

“Orc?”

“Or a Nord.”

“Coulda been skooma…”

“A Khajiit, then?”

“What’s going on?” the Dervera asked. The guards looked at her, and Joss raised her head, watching with fitting curiosity.

“Captain Ulrich Leland was killed last night. Dark Brotherhood.”

“By the Nine! You’re sure?”

“Who else? And he’s dead as dead, ain’t no mistaking that. His head’s missing. No one knows where it is.”

Joss pushed her plate away, prudently sickened by the news. She dropped her jaw in feigned shock, and tried not to grin.

The Count was wisely keeping his mouth shut.

She listened to them tell the innkeep all the gory details, and leaned in to listen. The guards told the story in equal parts horror and fascination, and both she and the mer were good listeners.

When they finished, they left, stumbling out the door to their posts. If all the guards were like that, today would be a fine day for mischief.

A pity she had other things to do.

She paid for her meal, then rose and shouldered her pack. “How do you get to the Desolate Mine from here?” she asked, then listened absently to the directions she didn’t need. Her eye lit on a week old Courier, wine-soaked and faded, but legible.

It was the one she’d been unable to read in full: ASSASSINATION!

After mama’s death, papa was never the same. He took to drinking, and eventually we had to move. Out of Chorrol, no longer welcome there, my brothers found work in the vineyards of Skingrad, and my sisters in the shops.

Papa found home in the jail cells more often than not.

Jules and I liked the city, though. It was our stone forest, and we came to know every inch of it, climbing the walls and driving the guards up them.

Not as crazy as Glarthir, though.

I think he chose me because I was new, not someone he’d seen before. What sane mer would ask a young girl to spy on people, I don’t know, but I knew that the money he was offering would help me bail papa out from his latest drunken binge.

Following Bernadette was easy; she worked alongside my brothers, and I spent the time gathering flowers and grinding them in my mortar.

Toutius was easy, too; he worked all day, and I read the Brief History of the Empire volume 2 while waiting.

By the time it was Davide’s turn, I knew for sure the Bosmer was insane. When he asked me to kill them, I knew I had to make a choice.

Three innocents, or one deranged mer.

Easy, really, and I’d helped butcher farm animals before. I had a knife, and a quick slash to the throat when his back was turned did the trick.

It didn’t get me initiated into the Brotherhood, but I did end up with a free place to crash whenever I needed. Who else was going to live in the house of a crazy?

-

You have to be careful mixing poisons. No cuts, can’t touch your face, and you have to wash your hands immediately after. Even with as many years as Joss had, she worked methodically, slow and careful, to ensure that everything was done right.

Across the room, Teinaava read one of his books, and the leathery creak of the skeletal guardian shuffled across the vaulted room, echoing counter to page turns and liquid brewing. The sounds were familiar and comforting, and she allowed a corner of her mouth to lift at the irony: safety in an assassins den.

She was getting more familiar with the amulet’s enchantment, and so she didn’t look up when she detected Vicente’s approach. She steadied her breathing and hands, and greeted him when he sat across from her.

“I didn’t think that you had the bloodlust in you,” he commented.

“I don’t. A jobs a job; I do what’s needed,” she replied archly, tweaking her equipment. Feeling his silence, she shot a quick, grinning glance at him. “Alright, the [&@%!] deserved it,” she added; she could not lie to a centuries old vampire.

“I’m sure it was a beautiful kill,” he said. She gave him a half shrug. “And it certainly sends a message that we are not to be trifled with.”

“Hm. I’m not Grogon,” Joss sent him another glance.

“Of course you aren’t. You are patient and calculating; you are a symphony of perfection.”

She laughed at the unwarranted flattery. Shaking her head, she changed the subject. “What’s a cliffracer?” she asked.

Vicente stiffened, and she thought for an absurd moment that she detected fear; she shook off the notion. “Something that even the best of us avoid.” She stared at him, jaw agape. “I do not like the Tribunal, but I thank Saint Jiub for ridding Morrowind of them all the same.” His joking smile looked strained, and Joss let it be.

They continued talking while she poured the finished potions into their vials, and carefully applied labels to them.

A pale hand reached out, and Vicente peered at the poison in his hand.

“You want one?” Joss asked, raising an eyebrow and nodding at the paralysis potion.

“No, it makes the prey taste wrong and dulls the hunt.” He flashed her a fanged grin. “And I don’t need such things to capture my prey. You could always find out for yourself…”

“Thank you for your offer again, but no thanks,” she laughed, putting away her ingredients. She yawned and stretched muscles stiff from hours hunched over her equipment. Vicente left while she cleaned up. She dropped her poisons off with M’raaj-Dar, then dropped herself into her bed.

Stretching out, she closed her eyes, and tucked her hands under her head. In a corner, Grogon and Telaendril sat, whispering. Joss didn’t understand the pair; it made no rational sense to her, but what else could you expect from assassins.

Someone sat down on her bed, and she cracked open one eye. Novor looked down at her, a bright, friendly smile on his dusky face. “I heard about your kill. It was-“

Joss yawned. “Did I give you the impression that I care what you thought? The whole city’s heard by now.”

Novor flinched back, staring down at her. His smile faded, and his eyes hardened. Cold. A true killer, and a part of her smiled that he was finally showing himself. Oddly, seeing the killer in him made her less suspicious of him. “I was told that we were Family. I’m trying to be-“

Straightening, sliding her hand from beneath the pillow to his lap, she gave him a sharp grin. “I don’t care. I don’t know you. You may have earned entry, but no more than that.” She dug in her knife to make her point; she still did not like him. “And you come to my bed again without permission, and you’ll be shorter.”

He hissed, and only moved when she removed her blade. The light in his eyes was venomous, but Joss dismissed it. She lay back down, and drifted into an uneasy sleep.

In her dreams, she remembered the report of the Emperor’s murder. It was real in her sleep, the blood thick and vivid against the white fur lining of his robes, but unable to extinguish the glint. Red diamond, crimson blood, choking gasps.

She woke to perfect darkness, to apparent solitude but for the chill silence on her bed. She willed her heart to slow, at first thinking it to be a vengeful Novor, absurd though it would be.

She struck, rising with her blade. Silk encasing a steel grip stopped her, and pushed her back down onto the bed. A shiver went through her, telling her exactly who her visitor was.

“We’ve got to stop meeting like this,” she whispered. This wasn’t the first time he’d come to her bed in the dark of night. When he’d come to induct her into their Family, he’d woken her from a dead sleep. Honed reflexes had sent a knife at him then same as now.

Of course, his were far better than hers, and his method of incapacitating her had left her breathless. She’d been fairly silent after, when he’d explained about the Night Mother and her initiation.

Now, unseen but felt, Lucien leaned closer to her, his voice a raspy whisper. “You said you would be discreet,” he replied, his breath warm in her ear. There was still something about him that left her troubled to fully catch her breath. The silky darkness and chill of him made every inch of her alive and aware of just how deadly he could be.

Swallowing, she tried to shrug, and found that pinned as she was, it wasn’t easy. “I said I could be. I thought what I did would be better.”

“The death was not sanctioned-“

She licked her lips, nervous now. “Is the Night Mother displeased?”

“No, she is not.” He paused, and she felt relieved until he spoke again. “I am. You disobeyed my orders.”

Straining to see him in the unnatural dark, she replied, “I got the job done.”

“And attracted unwanted attention at the same time.”

Considering, she felt dread creep up. “Is Phillida coming to investigate?”

He stayed silent, long enough for her fear to grow, before answering. “No, Indarys refuses to allow anyone do so. He wants it swept under the rug, so to speak.”

Gaping up at him, she laughed. “Then no harm’s been done; he surely understands we mean business, so I did my job well.”

A gloved hand cut off her laughter, squeezing enough that breathing became difficult. “Do you remember the last time you were impulsive?” he shook her. “The last time one of our family members displeased me?”

She shivered at both memories: scarlet sky; crimson stone.

His hand released her. “I admit… your craft is magnificent.” His hand stroked the scar curling around her cheek bone, an odd sensation of pressure, and a velvet rumble shook his chest before his hand left. “But do not go against my orders again, Joscelin Soteria.

“Yes, Speaker.” The pressure on her vanished and she blinked, sitting up. He was gone. She sighed, and fell back against the bed, running a hand through her hair, restless.

Sleep refused to come back, and by feel she unlocked her chest and removed the journal. Now was as good a time as ever to read it. She cast a light, eerie green on the slanting, sharp script. She turned to the first page.

“I did it! Finally, after all my efforts, honing my skills throughout this man-infested land, I am finally a full-fledged member of the Thieves Guild. The Redguard Doyen gave me the simplest task, but Methredhel and I celebrated once I gained admittance. Together, we’ll take over this guild!”

Startling at a familiar name, Joss shifted against the headboard.

“Everyone keeps talking about Lex and how much of a pain in the ass he is. The Gray Fox made a fool of him again, but I’ve yet to see our so-called guildmaster.

He’s not the only spoken off as messing with Lex, either; some other thief pulled a prank on him that the rest of the guild likes to laugh over. Making me angry that this snot, who isn’t even a thief anymore, gets spoken of more than I do –and I’m the one as broke into Umbaccano’s manor and stole his precious statues! Surely they ought to be lauding me for my efforts?!

So I had to one-up this hotshot. Snuck into the captain’s quarters. What’s with all the painting supplies? Guy like that can’t be an artist, can he? Too uptight. Stole his clothes. Stole all their clothes, as a matter of fact, and dumped them all in the lake. Ha!”

Joss snorted. She remembered that heist, and she hadn’t done it to get any laurels for her efforts, either. Just for the thrill.

She grinned at the memory; it’d been sweet, what she’d done. Lex had taxed the waterfront, and the Gray Fox (through Armand, of course) had asked her to reclaim the money. While in there, she’d decided to also play a joke on the captain. Like Faldir, she’d taken all Lex’s clothes. And armor. And she’d hidden it in barrels throughout the city.

What she hadn’t done was completely destroy them – no point to that, and it’d be a spiteful thing to do.

Instead, the clothes kept being ‘found’ by the beggars, and returned to the embarrassed captain in exchange for coin; he’d had to borrow from his underlings until all his own were found. Watching him walk in mismatched, ill-fitting clothes had earned her several drinks from her fellow thieves.
Laughing to herself, she set the journal away, yawning.

-

In the morning, she sought out Ocheeva in search of another contract. The Argonian frowned, looking down at her list. “Your last kill, he talked of the sewers, did he not?”

“Uh, yeah…”

“Good. Speak to Vicente – he has a contract for the sewers. He’d ask someone else – this is beneath you – but you are so adamant.”

Joss gave her a bow before heading further into the icy Sanctuary, finding Vicente at his desk. He looked up as she approached. “What can I help you with, dear sister?”

“Ocheeva says you have a contract for the sewers in the Imperial City? My last one knew the tunnels – maybe I can help?” she asked.

He frowned, and leaned back. “I was going to give this one to Novor when he finished the other assignment I gave him…” at her frustrated expression, he chuckled and nodded. “If you insist.

“I insist on work, Vicente. Make me useful.”

“Fine, fine. Ocheeva told me of your information; I think it will help. The sewers your elf spoke of connect into the prison, where a Dark Elf named Valen Dreth is. He thinks he’s safe; you are going to prove him wrong,” he smiled at her.

She laughed, nodded, and scratched her head. “I think I’ll do just that. And since I’ll be in the Imperial City, I’ll also take some time to visit family while I’m gone, so I may not be back right away.”

The vampire nodded and waved her off.

Packing, she added the journal and ruby amulet to her bag, and hefted the bust. She might find a collector in the Imperial City; she added it, too. She’d once known some collector’s quite well; it’d be an easy deal to make. She also had the trinkets from M’raaj-Dar to sell, and when she’d finished packing, her bag was heavy.

Getting Kat out of the stables in the pre-dawn light took some careful work not to awaken anyone, but she’d spent time in such places – it was where she’d first met Lucien, after all, taking Shadowmere for him – and she managed to mount up without much noise. No one to see her leavetaking.

Traveling down the road, she leaned back to admire the stars, but clouds had rolled in and she couldn’t see any of them. Though it was early fall, the air was chill, signaling a harsh winter to come.

She didn’t fear being seen on the road, and at a good pace, arrived at the City in time for the stores to open for the day. Since her goods weren’t obviously stolen, Thoronir didn’t object to taking her dubiously acquired items. She found a new dress from him that she liked as well, and left for the waterfront
Even though she was no longer welcome in the guild, she still had friends there.

She was surprised to see guards crawling through the place, uprooting beggars and the poor alike. She hesitated about approaching, unsure whether she dared get near. A familiar redhead approached her and dragged her out of sight.

“Joss,” Methredhel said, glancing over her shoulder. “You don’t want Armand seeing you here.”

“Bugger Armand; that’s got up Lex’s ass this time?”

“One of our guys stole the bust of the Cheydinhal Count’s wife. Disappeared, too, the two-timing [&@%!].”
Joss blinked at her, and burst out laughing. Methredhel eyed her warily, and Joss reached into her pack and pulled out the bust. The mer gaped at it.

“Where in the world did you-“

“Trust me, you don’t want to know. It came into my hands… through a source,” Joss flashed her a grin. “I was going to sell it, but I don’t have to. Just tell Armand he owes me one,” she said, winking at the mer before striding back into the City proper.

Slipping into an alcove, she donned her new dress and made her way through the City. She acted the part of an ordinary citizen, stopping to gossip and chat with those she met. She heard a strange rumor about the University having trouble summoning Daedra, the conjuration magic going awry. Later, she had lunch at the Feed Bag, where she saw a Redguard that struck her as odd in his behavior, hyper vigilant, perhaps. She couldn’t place why by the time she was set to leave, and dismissed him from her mind.

Her last destination was the Arena. After chatting with Hundolin about the upcoming matches, she bet a hundred on the blue team and went into the box to catch the end of the last fight. She enjoyed it, but didn’t pay as much attention to them as she did to the crowd. She chose a back seat, and sipped her wine, listening. There were dozens of conversations, some about the fight, but many more making deals, worrying over the Emperor’s death and the strange occurrences ever since, discussing politics, love affairs, arguments, and brawls as the audience got out of hand.

She smiled to herself, and tucked away the useful bits. Stored away mannerisms and gaits and syntax for use later.

“Hello, Joss.” A Redguard said, walking up to her. She glanced at him from the corner of her eye, and tugged her mouth down into a frown before taking a sip from her goblet.

“Armand,” she acknowledged, her free hand reaching for her knife.
“None of that,” he said, taking a seat next to her.

“Did Methredhel-“

“No, but I guessed. Had an eye on you the moment you entered the City – what are you doing here?” he demanded.

She waved a hand at the next contestant, a robust woman who could easily pass for a Nord. Heavy blue armor covered her, a two-handed sword her weapon of choice. “My sister, of course,” Joss answered, waving him to silence as the battle began.

Lara had not reached her rank for nothing; she was patient and methodical in her battle, and Joss watched as her elder sister circled the yellow opponent. The Khajiit she was up against was equally cautious, and they tested each other until, with all the speed of her kind, the feline attacked in a flurry of strokes. Lara retreated, defending, before slipping in and eviscerating the cat, her strength ripping through chainmail as easily as flesh and fur.

The crowd erupted into cheers, the winner pulling off her helmet; sandy blond hair matted to her face. She grinned and waved to the spectators before sweeping into a bow and striding off to the Red Room.

“The Iron Maiden fights well. Did you win too?” Armand asked dryly. Joss smirked at him.

“I never bet against family, Armand. And I never lose.”

“You always were cocky,” he said, barring her from leaving.
She turned and set down her empty drink. “When you have the skill and the luck, it isn’t cocky.” She spun on him, blade to his throat. “What do you want from me, Armand?” she hissed, backing him behind a pillar, into the shadows.

“To make sure you aren’t going to interfere with the guild.”

“I know where I’m not wanted. My hands are bloody and I’m not paying your price just to pay it again every time I do what’s needed. You know that, I know that, so tell me what you really want.”

He glared at her. “The Gray Fox sent Faldir after the bust – how’d you come by it? Did you kill him?”

“Who?” She smiled sweetly at him. “That would be my business. Even thieves cross lines they shouldn’t, Armand. And not all are as lucky as I am.”

“’Most blessed and most cursed,’” he bit out. She shrugged and backed up.

“I’m not here to mess with your guild, Armand. Tell your boss to leave me be. I’m here visiting. That’s all.” She sheathed her blade and exited the spectator stand. Collecting her two hundred from Hundolin she went below to the training area.

Owyn snarled at her for being there and she flipped him off, continuing past the fighters until she saw her sister. “Lara!” she called, knowing better than to sneak up on the warrior.

Removing her armor, the older woman gave her a tired smile. “Joscelin, good to see you again. How long can I expect your company this time?” she asked, practical as ever.

“A few days, I hope,” Joss laughed. “Hurry up and get clean; I want to see Cara.”

Her sister was efficient and meticulous at cleaning the blood from her weapons and armor, and afterwards donned her dark shirt and pants. Together they went to the Elven Gardens district, in time for their sister to get home.

Youngest of the triplets, Cara was also the prettiest, even at her age. Joss was mildly surprised that she didn’t have a guest tonight. Or that she was even home.

Dinner was pleasant, neither sister pushing Joss about her whereabouts. They caught her up with family news: Mara, eldest, had given birth to another little girl; Marcus’s shop was flailing, and they didn’t know what he was wasting his money on; Marius was doing well with the vineyards, though he refused to get into the rivalry between Tamika and the Surilie brothers; Alessia and her husband had had a good harvest and she might be with child, though she wouldn’t confirm; Tiber was out at sea; no one knew where Reman was, but they knew he’d turn up eventually; her own twin had taken an arrow while working for the Fighter’s Guild but was fine; and Felicia would be heartbroken, of course, if she didn’t visit at the University.

In return, she told them safe tales, and promised to visit Skingrad for the family Saturalia feast.
Being with them made her feel almost normal, like she truly was an ordinary person. They all knew she wasn’t. They might even guess, but they never spoke of how she made her living or why she came and went.

It also gave her a safe place and a plausible reason to be in the City. So when she went to bed that night, she pulled out Faldir’s journal. There had to be a clue somewhere about the sewer entrance. She flipped to the end of the written pages.

“Damn Lex, he only caught me because he was rounding everyone up in one of his sweeps. He supposes I’m a thief, but he’s never caught me at it. Trying to get back at the Gray Fox, but I’ll show him. He’ll regret throwing me in this prison cell. When I get out, I’ll make such a fool of him the Emperor will have to sack him.

And even then I’ll tail him, drive him crazy.

Like this wretched dark elf is doing to me. I think that’s the first thing I’ll do when I get out. ‘Little far from the forest’ my ass. Valen Dreth is going to die, of that I am certain.”

Raising her eyebrows, Joss stared at the name of her target. She read the next entry.

“‘Pretty soon you'll go mad, and the guards will cut your throat just to stop the ranting.’ Who does he think he’s kidding? He’s the one who’s raving mad. Sheogorath took him long ago, and pretty soon, I may just follow if he doesn’t shut up. If only they’d let me get close, I’d throttle him!

…

I think it’s the end of Last Seed? I don’t know, but whoever reads this will think the Madgod really did come and take me. I’m not even sure I believe it myself.

The Emperor and his Blades came through my cell.

There’s a passage, and I swear I tried all the blocks, so I don’t know how I missed it. Emperor started spouting some nonsense about seeing me in his dreams. Either he’s been taking too much skooma, or I don’t want to know why he’s dreaming about male Bosmeri. Sheogorath teaming up with Vaermina?

I followed them out – I’m not stupid, and whatever they were running from, I didn’t want it to find me. Didn’t help; assassins appeared from nowhere and cut down the Blade captain. I stole her sword, and when I looked up, the [&@%!] had abandoned me through a door.

So much for me being the Emperor’s conjured dream.

Rats and goblins down there, as to be expected. Ran into the Blades again, and the crazy old man spouted off things about death and the stars and his dreams again. I was starting to wonder if this was one of Sheogorath’s pranks, and maybe I was nuts and this was all some delusion; maybe I was babbling on the floor of my cell. I played along either way; not like I had much choice. I was truly lost down there, and needed all the help getting out I could get.

High and mighty Imperial was an ass to me, but the Redguard was ok. Didn’t matter – assassins caught up with us anyways. Glenroy got his. They set me to guard the old man –and were they nuts? Like I’d risk my neck for him? – and he starts babbling again. Senile old human. Something about the Prince of Destruction and closing the jaws of Oblivion, and that there’s a missing heir. And I mean, hearing your sons were killed, I guess that’ll make a weak man’s mind concoct some way for it not to be true. Then he shoved, of all things, the Amulet of Kings into my hands!

Would be worth a fortune – Meth and I could retire! – if it weren’t so, you know, unique.

But then one of those assassins came out of nowhere, bashed the old man’s skull in – blood everywhere, and you don’t want to know what got into my mouth. Then the [&@%!] comes after me, but I’m far more agile in my leathers than him in that bound armor, and I got around him with my knife.

Baurus came in and finished him, and wanted to know what happened. If I’d [&@%!] up as badly as he had – your job, your only job, is to protect to Emperor, and you royally screw it up?- I’d want to know too. I told him what I could, and he starts talking about me going to see his grandmaster, Jauffre, in the priory at Chorrol.


Yeah, because I want any part in any more of this insanity.

Got my way out of the sewers, ended up on the southern edge of the isle. Ayleid ruins across from me. I got my bearings, and went to Meth’s shack. Her friends can [&@%!] off; I smelled like a beggar, probably worse. Got clean and slept for what felt like a day.

Talked to Armand after, he said he was sorry he couldn’t do anything about getting me out sooner. Yeah, right. They left me to rot, all that stuff about the guild helping out nothing but a crock. Still, he had a job for me. Cheydinhal. Which is perfect. As far away from this mess as I can get.”

Joss stared at the journal, her mind numb. She couldn’t possibly have read that right. It fell from her hands, and she scrambled to her pack, digging out the buried amulet. Golden clasp. Eight small jewels around the central red gem, a diamond, not a ruby. She dangled it in front of her face, gazing at it.

She held in her hands the Amulet of Kings.