The Neveragaine Strikes Back, Revenge of the Killer Ada Options

[Helena]

Since I'm apparantly allowed more than one fanfic at once here, I decided to take advantage of it and start posting my latest fic, 'The Neveragaine Strikes Back'. Bear in mind that this is the sequel to 'The Neveragaine' (covering the events of Tribunal), so it's best to read the original story in full before starting on this one. Updates will also be a lot slower on this fic, as I've only just started writing it.

So, onto the prologue:

Prologue: Trouble In Paradise

As a fighter, I was always taught that you should never let your guard down. If things seem unusually quiet, it’s often a sign that the enemy’s just getting prepared and all hell is about to break loose. If I’d only remembered that, perhaps none of this would ever have happened.

After more than six months of living as the Nerevarine, I was still struggling to get used to being Vvardenfell’s hot new celebrity. For the first few weeks it was fantastic: everywhere I went there’d be people bowing and scraping, saying things like “Almsivi bless you, Nerevarine,” and “how may I serve you, Incarnate?” and “please may I lick your boots clean for you, Nerevar-Born-Again?” But after a month had gone by, and people were still collapsing into stammering incoherence whenever I so much as spoke to them, the excitement was starting to wear off pretty quickly. I even considered visiting Telvanni areas just for the novelty of being treated with polite indifference (or even not-so-polite indifference).

Things just got crazier as time went on. Before long there were people turning up at Bal Isra for pilgrimages – yes, honest-to-goodness pilgrimages. Some of them even seemed to believe I had mystical healing powers of some sort, and could heal their sick friends and relatives just by touching them. I had enormous trouble convincing them that I was just an ordinary mortal rather than some sort of divine being.

“No, seriously,” I would plead. “I’d love to help you, I really would, but I’m useless at magic. You need to go and see a healer.”

I felt so guilty about disappointing them that I usually paid for a healer’s fee, and of course, word quickly got around. Eventually I caved in and learned a couple of spells to cure diseases and suchlike. I managed to persuade the Temple to install a healing shrine so that I wouldn’t have to cure everyone personally, which was not how I planned to spend the rest of my (potentially eternal) life.

Indarys Manor itself was doing quite well. I’d made quite a nice little pile by selling off the Sixth House artifacts I’d collected at Red Mountain (and hadn’t blown all of it on expensive gowns imported from Cyrodiil), so there was plenty of money for improvements. The population had grown to around twenty (plus guards), and we even had our own silt strider port going to Maar Gan and Ald’ruhn.

Things in House Redoran had also improved quite a bit since the fall of Dagoth Ur. The Blight was gone, and ashstorms were a lot less frequent now, making the Ashlands a much nicer place to live in. Arethan Mandas – the ‘Mad Lord of Milk’ – was back in Ald’ruhn under his daughter’s care, and as for Hlaren Ramoran, his relationship with his bodyguard Nalvyna seemed to be progressing nicely. When things got particularly boring in Council meetings, we’d sometimes catch him staring dreamily off into the distance, humming a little tune to himself.

If only the Council business had been going half as well. When I was first appointed Archmaster, I’d dreamed of creating a new House: a House with the honour of Redoran, the enterprise of Hlaalu, and … well, I’m sure there must be something good about the Telvanni. Top of my list of ‘improvements’ was abolishing the ridiculous system of ‘advancement by honourable duel’. If someone thought they would make a better leader than me, they could damn well explain why they thought it instead of dragging me out to the Arena.

But I’d reckoned without the Redoran council – the stickiest stick-in-the-muds ever to gum up the workings of government. I’d propose some trivial change – at least, one that seemed trivial to me – and they’d look at me as if I’d suggested holding a revolution and overthrowing the Tribunal. “But we’ve always done it this way,” were the words I’d come to dread.

I soon sussed out who I could count on to support or oppose me. Athyn Sarethi was generally (though not always) on my side, and together with Brara Morvayn, we formed what I’d come to think of as the ‘liberal wing’ of the Council. Lined up against us were Hlaren Ramoran, Miner Arobar and Garisa Llethri – making a nicely-balanced three on each side, which didn’t exactly help with decision-making. As Archmaster I technically had the casting vote, but I didn’t want over-use it and turn the others against me.

It didn’t help that the other Councillors were still struggling with the idea of a human Archmaster. I wouldn’t have minded so much, except that they seemed to deal with it by treating me as a sort of honorary Dunmer. As a result I had to sit through meeting after meeting, grinding my teeth, while the others whinged endlessly about Imperials and the Empire and what a bunch of greedy honourless bastards we all were. (Not in those exact words, obviously, but that was the gist of it.)

Athyn could usually be counted on to smooth things over when they got too heated. But relations between me and Athyn were slightly strained at the moment, mainly because of Varvur.

Ah, yes. Me and Varvur Sarethi.

******

We spent as much time as we could together after Red Mountain, which wasn’t easy. I was the Redoran Archmaster, living in Bal Isra, while Varvur was training to be a Buoyant Armiger and spent most of his time in Vivec (the city, not… oh, never mind).

Even when we did manage to get together, we still had to find places where we could talk (and other things) in secret. Not to mention getting hold of sterility potions, without tipping off the whole of Vvardenfell that the Nerevarine had a lover. I eventually managed to get some from Sharn gra-Muzgob, after swearing her to secrecy on pain of having her necromantic activities reported to the Temple.

In order to see as much of me as possible on his visits to Ald’ruhn, Varvur came up with the idea of teaching me Dunmeris. After six months in Morrowind I could already understand it reasonably well, but speaking it was another matter. I’d never been much good at languages, but luckily Varvur had lots of patience.

“Conjugate the verb ‘to love’,” he said to me one day.

“I already know that one.” It was one of the first I’d learned.

“Never mind, let’s do it again.” He began to recite the verb forms in Tamrielic, and I repeated them back to him in Dunmeris. “He loves you. She loves you. They love you. We love you.” He slid his hand under the table and gently closed his fingers around mine. “I love you.”

My heart was starting to race, but I grasped his hand tightly and repeated the words in Dunmeris. “I love you.”

From then on, we were as close to engaged as we’d ever be without announcing it officially. The only problem was that Varvur’s parents still didn’t know about it. When we’d first started seeing each other, we’d held off telling them because we weren’t sure it would last – but now, in hindsight, that was starting to look like a bad idea. How would they react when they found out we’d been shagging each other in secret for months on end?

In my more optimistic moments, I told myself that it would be okay. After all, it wasn’t like I was a penniless nobody any more – I was the Redoran Archmaster and a high-ranking Imperial knight, not to mention a famous hero. I’d have been a pretty good match for Varvur if it weren’t for my low birth and – of course – the fact that I wasn’t a Dunmer. But surely that wouldn’t matter so much to people as kind and tolerant as the Sarethis?

“We’re going to have to tell them some day,” I said to Varvur, as we lay in each other’s arms somewhere in the Grazelands.

“I know,” he said, sighing. “I wish now that we had told them at the start. It would have been more honourable, certainly. But it’s too late now.”

I nuzzled up against him. “Do you think they have someone else in mind for you, perhaps? Some Redoran noblewoman?”

“I doubt it. If they had, they would at least have introduced me to her by now. I think they believe I’m too young to marry.” He paused. “Besides, you are a Redoran noblewoman.”

“Well… technically.” I knew I wasn’t kidding anyone with that one.

“And the Nerevarine besides,” he went on. “If Nerevar reborn is not good enough for them, who would be?”

I didn’t answer for a second or two. Varvur’s words had brought to mind something that had been niggling at me for quite some time.

“Varvur… doesn’t it ever bother you?” I said at last. “That I’m the Nerevarine?”

“No,” he said, looking surprised. “At least, not any more.” He gave me a searching look. “And you? Does it bother you?”

“I… well, it’s just…” I was struggling to find words to express what I felt. “Ever since Red Mountain, it’s like everyone has gone completely insane. People are treating me like I really am Saint Nerevar. And…”

“Yes?”

I took a deep breath. “I just have this horrible feeling that someday, they’re all going to wake up and realise I’m not nearly as great as they thought I was. Even you.”

“No,” he said instantly. He wrapped his arms around me and held me close, kissing me almost fiercely. “No. I love Ada, not the Nerevarine.”

I felt tears prick my eyes. Neither of us said anything else, but we tacitly agreed to put off telling The Folks a little while longer. And of course, eventually the inevitable happened and Athyn found out.

I’d gone to Varvur’s room for ‘comfort’ during one of my occasional bouts of painful homesickness, and Athyn walked in on us. He didn’t actually catch us in bed together, thank Dibella – that would just have been too much of a cliché – but he did find me sitting half-naked in Varvur’s lap, with his arms around me. He didn’t say anything, just stared at us for a moment and then closed the door again, but I think he realised we hadn’t been practising verb inflections this time.

I slid off Varvur’s lap, grabbing at my robe, and made for the door – but he caught my arm before I could get any further. “No, Ada, you go back to Bal Isra. I will talk to him.”

“It’s my job,” I said flatly, but he shook his head.

“No, let me. He’s my father, and it is my dishonour for keeping this from him. I should have told him earlier.”

Before I could protest he was hurrying off after his father, leaving me torn between following him or chickening out and heading off home. I hesitated for a few moments, then poked my head out of the door just in time to see them both disappear into Athyn’s study.

There wasn’t much to do except teleport back to Bal Isra. I felt guilty about leaving Varvur to face the music alone, but at the same time I couldn’t help feeling slightly relieved that the truth was out. Okay, so this was a slightly awkward way for it to happen, but surely a man as fair and reasonable as Athyn would come round eventually?

But my hopes were dashed when Varvur showed up at Indarys Manor the next morning. From the grim expression on his face, I guessed his father hadn’t reacted by breaking out the shein and discussing wedding presents.

“What happened?” I asked, dreading the answer.

“You know my father. He doesn’t get angry, he just…” Varvur broke off, sighing heavily. “He asked if the two of us were sleeping together.”

“And what did you say?”

“I told him that we were, of course. And then he asked why I hadn’t told him earlier, so I tried to explain – but I could see he was not happy about it.”

“What happened then?”

Varvur’s fists clenched. “He started… lecturing me. As if I were a child still. Telling me that I should be beyond the age of ‘infatuations’ with human women. That I should have more respect for you, and not make promises I couldn’t… keep.”

My jaw dropped. “Could you have believed it? I am not fourteen years old any longer! So… well, I am afraid I lost my temper a little.” He heaved another gusty sigh. “I told him that this was not an ‘infatuation’ and we were in love. And that I had made no promises to you, but that if I had, I certainly would not break them.”

“Well… that doesn’t sound so bad,” I said. “Maybe it’s just a misunderstanding. If we can persuade him that we’re really in love with each other – ”

Varvur was shaking his head. “There’s more. He started repeating lies he had heard about you – malicious gossip and slander. I would never have believed it of my father.”

“Lies?” That didn’t sound at all like Athyn. “What sort of lies?”

He waved a hand angrily. “They are not worth repeating! And so I said to him. I told him I wouldn’t listen to any more of it, and then I left.”

There was a long silence. I was beginning to see just how badly wrong I’d been when I blithely assumed Athyn would give us his blessing.

“What about your mother?” I asked. “Do you think she’ll be on our side?”

He shook his head again. “I doubt it. I don’t like to speak ill of my mother, but… she is prejudiced against humans. She likes you because you helped our family, but if my father doesn’t want me to marry an Imperial, she certainly would not.”

“So what do we do?” I said at last. “Varvur… I really wouldn’t want to get married without your parents’ approval. Especially your father’s. After the way he’s treated me, and everything he’s done for me… I just couldn’t.”

He nodded. “No, I don’t wish to either. I could never do that to my parents. I suppose we will just have to wait, and hope that they change their minds.”

So we did, and a bloody uncomfortable wait it was. We still had to meet in secret to avoid any publicity, but now we had to do it in the full knowledge that Varvur’s parents knew, and disapproved. In a way it was harder for me than for Varvur – not that he didn’t love his father, but to me Athyn was a friend and mentor, the man who’d made me everything I was today. I knew I’d disappointed him, and I felt terrible about it.

To make things worse, Athyn and I had to see each other practically every day to discuss business. He never actually said anything to me about Varvur, but I could sense the tension between us whenever we met – and to be honest, I couldn’t entirely blame him. I knew I couldn’t exactly be the daughter-in-law he’d always dreamed of.

Sometimes I found myself wondering if it was even worth it. There were so many practical problems in the way of my relationship with Varvur, and not just because of race and background. We came from totally different cultures, worshipped different gods... and then, of course, there was the issue of children. For some reason, the children of mixed-race marriages always take on the mother’s race – so any kids I had with Varvur would be Imperials, not Dunmer. They would grow old and die long before their grandparents, let alone their parents.

In the end, it might have been easier for both of us if we’d just given up and gone our separate ways. The only problem was that I loved him.

Things couldn’t go on like this, of course. Something had to give. But when the crisis came, it happened in a way I most definitely would not have expected.

[Helena]

Chapter 2: Performance Anxiety

I did my best to concentrate on the task ahead as I packed for the journey to Mournhold. I knew how important it was to ‘block out’ other distractions during a mission; you couldn’t afford to get sidetracked by personal problems when people were trying to kill you. In a way it was almost a relief to be getting away for a while; it meant I had time to sort my head out before going back to my job and my boyfriend. If I even had either of those things by the time I got back.

At least they couldn’t just kick me out for being an Imperial spy, I thought. For once, House Redoran’s idiotic rules would work in my favour; the only way to get rid of an Archmaster was by defeating them in honourable combat. Varvur… now that was a different matter.

I was fully aware that I’d left Athyn to deal with the fallout from my ‘revelation’, but then it was entirely his fault. Well, mostly his fault. Even if he did have a point about the Blades, I was still pissed off with him for telling Varvur when he’d promised not to. If he thought it was so important, why couldn’t he have got both of us together and let me explain everything? (I ignored the little voice in my head telling me that he might have done, if only I’d told him the truth about me and Varvur in the first place.)

It was only when I’d finished packing that I realised I hadn’t eaten all day. I’d never felt less hungry, but I forced myself to swallow some food, hoping it hadn’t been poisoned. How long before the assassins thought to try that, I wondered?

Before setting off for Ebonheart, I spoke to Viras Guls – the hetman of my stronghold – to explain where I was going and what I was doing there. I also left a package for Varvur, containing my old journal (it had filled up so quickly that I’d had to buy another one) and all the letters and documents Caius Cosades had left regarding my service in the Blades. In the past I’d thought about burning them to make sure they didn’t fall into the wrong hands, but now I was glad I hadn’t. If Varvur could just read those, I thought, maybe he’d understand.

Asciene Rane was still waiting in the Grand Council chambers when I arrived in Ebonheart. “Ah, Sera Ventura! You’re back,” she said cheerfully. “Have you changed your mind about travelling to Mournhold?”

“Yes, I have. Can I trust you not to say a word to anyone about this?” She nodded, and I lowered my voice to just above a whisper. “I need to go there because someone’s been sending Dark Brotherhood assassins to attack me. I want to find out who’s responsible.”

Her eyes widened. “Oh, my! I can see why you’d want to get that cleared up. That’s dangerous business, though. I can’t say I’d be happy to send you off on that sort of fool’s errand.”

I had to fight back a smile; she reminded me a little of my Aunt Sybilla. “Danger isn’t a problem, believe me. I’ve handled worse things than the Dark Brotherhood since I arrived in Morrowind.”

“Well, if you’re sure,” she said doubtfully. “I suppose I can oblige you. If you need to return to Vvardenfell, speak with Effe-Tei in the Royal Palace. But take care, friend –those people are not to be taken lightly.”

She cast the spell as she finished speaking, and moments later I found myself standing in a room I’d never seen before. It was some kind of reception or waiting area, carved out of rich green marble and sumptuously decorated. A lone guard in crimson armour stood in one corner, holding an adamantium claymore. His helmet covered his entire face, yet somehow he still managed to look menacing.

The mage standing next to me, a well-dressed Argonian, smiled at the bewildered expression on my face. “Welcome to Mournhold, sera. Have you just arrived from Vvardenfell?”

“I have, yes,” I said, pulling myself together. “Would you mind telling me what part of Mournhold this is?”

He smiled again. “This is the reception room of the Royal Palace. Your first visit?” I nodded, realising this must be the ‘Effe-Tei’ whom Asciene had mentioned. “Would you like me to help you get your bearings?”

“Yes, thank you,” I said gratefully.

“Well, the doors just here will take you out to the courtyard,” he said, pointing. “South is Plaza Brindisi Dorom; north is Almalexia’s Temple; and to the west and east you have Godsreach – the residential district – and the Great Bazaar. Here in the palace you’ve got the Legion barracks and an Imperial Cult shrine… and the Royal chambers, of course. Queen Barenziah holds court here, if you have any reason to see her.”

My mouth dropped open. “Hold on… did you say Barenziah? The Barenziah? Here in Mournhold?”

Effe-Tei nodded. “The old king, Athyn Llethan, is dead. Long live King Hlaalu Helseth. He and his mother have lived here in Mournhold since she abdicated her throne in Wayrest. Now that her son has become king, you might expect him to respect her counsel and experience.” He paused. “Or not. I pay no attention to my mother.”

“Same here,” I admitted. “So… the new king is a Hlaalu?” I vaguely remembered hearing about King Llethan’s death, but I hadn’t paid much attention at the time. Everyone knew the King of Morrowind was really just an Imperial puppet.

“Yes, technically. But he has plenty of enemies even in his own House.” Effe-Tei sighed. “He wants to transform the role of King into a powerful head of state along Western lines, and a lot of the Dunmer traditionalists aren’t happy about that. They prefer the old system of council rule. And there’s always been hostility between the Temple and the Imperial administration, but since Helseth’s accession, the tension between Imperial-leaning Dunmer and Almalexia’s supporters is much worse.”

I nodded politely, but I wasn’t really interested – I had enough of politics back home. Far more interesting to me was the fact that Barenziah, one of my childhood heroines, was here in Mournhold. Like most other kids my age, I’d spent a good part of my teenage years trying to track down an uncensored copy of The Real Barenziah. I’d never imagined I might actually get to meet her in the flesh.

Get a grip, Ada, I thought, giving myself a mental shake. You’re here to track down a bunch of deadly assassins, not to fawn over the Queen Mother. “Well, thanks for your help,” I said to Effe-Tei. “I don’t suppose you could recommend a place to stay?”

“The Winged Guar in Godsreach,” he said, so quickly that I wondered if someone was paying him to advertise the place. Well, it was all the same to me.

I headed out into the courtyard, where I paused for a minute to take stock. Since I’d only just arrived here, nobody knew who I was, which meant I probably had at least a day or two before I had to worry about assassins again. I decided to head for the ‘Great Bazaar’ Effe-Tei had mentioned to buy some provisions before going to Godsreach.

I left the courtyard through the southern gate – smiling at the elderly, well-dressed Imperial who nodded to me as I passed – and found myself in a vast plaza surrounded by thirty-foot-high walls, all made of the same green-and-white marble as the palace. In the centre was a large fountain with a statue of two figures doing battle. There were a few more of those crimson-suited guards wandering about, as well as some others who looked a lot like the Ordinators from Vivec. They wore the same creepy mask-like helmets, but their armour was even more ornate, and each of them carried a vicious-looking ebony scimitar.

I wandered towards the fountain to have a closer look at the statue. The figure with four arms was presumably Mehrunes Dagon, Prince of Destruction, but I wasn’t sure about the other. Whatever myth or historical event this was supposed to depict, I wasn’t familiar with it.

“Mournhold!” a voice growled behind me. “City of Light! City of Magic!” I turned sharply round and found myself staring at one of the Ordinator-alikes. I swear they do that just to scare people.

“Excuse me,” I said coolly, trying to pretend he hadn’t startled me. “Could you tell me what’s being shown in this statue here?”

“It honours the Lady Almalexia and her defeat of the Daedra Prince Mehrunes Dagon,” he said promptly. “The battle levelled the city, but the lives of many were saved by the goddess’ valour.” He gave me a penetrating look through the slits in his helmet. “This is her city, outlander – and we are the High Ordinators, the protectors of Mournhold. Behave yourself.”

“Don’t worry,” I promised. “I’ll be good.”

He snorted and turned away without a word. For once I was more amused than annoyed; it was almost refreshing to be treated with contempt again. I couldn’t help wondering how he’d react if he knew he was talking to the Nerevarine.

I wandered east across the plaza until I came to a much smaller gate set into the wall. On the other side was a large, crowded open-air marketplace which I took to be the Great Bazaar. I noticed with interest that there was an open-air theatre of some kind in the centre, with a crowd of people gathered round it. Once I’d got hold of my would-be assassin and wrung his neck, maybe I’d have time to take in a show.

The steps down to the marketplace took me directly in front of the theatre, and as I got closer I could hear confused murmurs from the crowd. The stage was dressed for a play – a very simple set, with just a rug, some banners and a wall with one door in it – and a Dunmer actress in full costume stood near the doorway, but nothing seemed to be happening. What was this, one of those weird ‘experimental theatre’ pieces?

I picked my way round the edge of the crowd, heading for a trader’s stall, where I bought some provisions. As I was leaving, I accidentally trod on a sheet of printed paper which someone had dropped on the ground. Picking it up, I saw that it was some kind of newssheet, copied on cheap paper under the heading ‘The Common Tongue’.

As I skimmed through it, one article in particular caught my eye. It described a number of mysterious deaths in Wayrest, during the years when Barenziah had lived there as Queen. “I have a little list,” it began. “They never would be missed.”

I read on with increasing astonishment. The article was basically accusing Barenziah’s son, Prince Helseth – now King Helseth of Morrowind – of being responsible for dozens of poisonings, all of people who had posed an ‘inconvenience’ to Helseth in some way or other. “The Common Tongue does not wish to suggest that King Helseth is a poisoner,” it finished, with blatant untruthfulness, “or that the recent death of King Athyn Llethan’s was a poisoning, and not a natural death. The Common Tongue has never seen a single scrap of evidence that would prove such an indictment. And the Imperial coroners have ruled that Athyn Llethan died a natural death.”

Good grief. This was certainly a lot juicier than the stuff you’d find in the Black Horse Courier, Cyrodiil’s own state-funded newsletter. I wondered if the King knew what people were saying about him?

I left the newssheet where I’d found it and set off towards the smith’s stall on the other side of the marketplace. As I passed the back of the theatre, I saw a well-dressed man pacing up and down outside the stage door – the manager, perhaps? I hadn’t gone more than a few steps further when I felt a hand on my shoulder.

“Excuse me!” It was the man I’d noticed a few moments earlier. “Sorry to bother you but I thought perhaps you could help me. I’m Meryn Othralas, founder of the Mournhold Players.” He had a pleasant, well-modulated voice – an actor’s voice.

“Um, well, I’m kind of busy right now – ”

“Oh, I understand,” he said soothingly. “It’s just that I saw you walking by in your fine armour, and I just had to ask. The show must go on, you see.”

“What do you mean?”

Othralas sighed. “Well, I’m afraid our troupe has its own drama at the moment. Wouldn’t you know that the very day we’re supposed to debut our show, our lead actor Tarvus Beleth comes down with collywobbles? So now I’m desperately trying to find someone who looks like Tarvus to take his place.” He paused. “You know, you kind of look a little like Tarvus…”

I looked at him incredulously. “I look like a male Dunmer?”

“Well… a bit like Tarvus. Close enough, anyway.” He hurried on. “So, what do you say, Imperial? Would you like to take on the part of Clavides, Captain of the Imperial Guard, in our production?”

Okay, this had to stop right here. “I’m sorry, Ser Othralas,” I said, “but I really can’t help you. I’m a fighter, not an actress.”

“Oh, that doesn’t matter,” he said airily. “There’s not much acting involved – all you need to do is stand there and say the lines. If you were a professional, of course, that would be different… but needs must, eh?”

I’d never been in a play before, but I was willing to try almost anything once. If I hadn’t been so busy chasing assassins, I might have given it a shot. “I’ll do it if you’ll tell me where to find the Dark Brotherhood,” I said, not thinking for a moment that he’d actually be able to.

“The sewers beneath the Great Bazaar,” he said promptly. “That’s what they say, anyway. Though I don’t know why you’d want to go looking for those demons… still, it’s your funeral.”

I stifled a groan. Sewers! Why did it have to be sewers? I still hadn’t got over that time I’d had to crawl around in the Vivec underworks.

“So,” Othralas continued, “you’ll take the part, then?”

Sh*t. “What is the play?” I asked, stalling for time.

“The Horror of Castle Xyr. I’m sure you know it, don’t you?”

“Well…” Actually I did recall seeing that play when it was touring in Cyrodiil a few years back – though all I could really remember was that it was about a crazy mage.

“Fantastic!” Without waiting for me to finish, Meryn pressed a copy of the script into my hands. “No need for a lengthy rehearsal, in that case. Review the script for the next two minutes, then talk to me again.”

I goggled at him. “But hang on, I – ”

“No time!” he interrupted, grabbing a box of props. “People are starting to gather, so we need to get this show started. Just make sure you’re back in two minutes!”

He disappeared round the side of the stage, leaving me doing my best impression of a stunned slaughterfish. Two minutes? I couldn’t learn an entire play in two minutes!

I opened the book and leafed through the first few pages. The dialogue did sound vaguely familiar – though some of the names and references had been changed in the version I remembered, presumably to suit the local politics in Cyrodiil. I’d just have to learn as much as I could, and rely on the book for the rest.

“Why me?” I muttered in exasperation. Why did I keep on finding myself in these crazy situations? I bet Athyn Sarethi would never have let this happen to him; he’d just have said “Forgive me, sera,” in that quiet, dignified way of his, and walked on. Maybe there was some sort of support group I could join? “Basic Assertiveness Training: How To Turn Down Insane Requests From Total Strangers”?

By the end of two minutes I had just about managed to learn the first couple of pages, and was trying not to panic. I’d never acted before in my life – at least, not in front of a proper audience. What if I got out on that stage and just froze up in terror? I’d ruin Othralas’ play, not to mention looking like a complete idiot.

At that moment, Othralas himself came striding back round the corner. “Ah, good job! You’re right on time,” he said, beaming at me. “Let’s get this show on the road. All you have to do is head out through the door, hit your mark in the centre of the rug next to Gureryne – that’s our leading lady – and deliver your lines.”

Desperately I racked my brains for a way out of this. “Captain Clavides is supposed to be a man,” I protested. “Won’t the audience notice he’s being played by a woman?”

“Oh, never mind that!” he said impatiently. “If the audience can buy a Dunmer as an Imperial captain, they can certainly cope with him being the wrong sex. Besides, you’ll be wearing a helmet – here.” He rummaged around in his box of props and handed me an Imperial silver helmet. “Just be careful, because they all know the play well, and I’ll be counting your mistakes.”

Then, to my utter horror, he took the script out of my hands. A wave of panic swept over me. “B- but I…!”

“Off you go!” he whispered, ignoring me completely. “Break a leg!”

He wrenched open the stage door and practically shoved me through it. It was almost as if he didn’t care how badly I ended up performing. If I hadn’t been so flustered, that might have tipped me off that something a bit strange was going on.

I landed on a rug in the centre of the stage, facing the actress I’d seen earlier. “Good evening to you, serjo,” she said instantly, in a rather painful imitation of a lower-class Dunmer accent.

There wasn’t even time to panic any more. I took a deep breath, trying to put myself into the role of the stereotypical pleasant-but-dim Imperial captain. “Good evening,” I replied, making my voice as deep and gruff as possible. “Is your master home?”

And we went on from there. Amazingly, I managed to remember most of the lines, though I did hear a few ‘boos’ from the audience whenever I made a minor slip-up. Clearly Othralas had been right when he’d said they all knew the play.

Before long we had reached the last part of the script which I’d actually learned. It was taking all my concentration to remember the lines, but at the same time I was dimly aware that everything was about to go haywire. What was I going to do next, just improvise the rest of the play?

“Please, serjo, go wherever you want,” Gureryne was saying. “We have nothing to hide. We’re loyal Imperial subjects.”

“As, I hear, are all Telvanni,” I said with a completely straight face, as directed in the script. (In the Cyrodiilic version, that line had been “As, I hear, are all Colovians.”)

There was a ripple of laughter from the audience – and then, suddenly, terrified screams. I whirled round to see that a black-clad Dunmer had leapt up onto the stage, brandishing some sort of Daedric dagger. “You die now, actor scum!” he roared, hurling himself at me.

I’d drawn my own sword before he even got close. There were gasps from the audience as I neatly sidestepped his first blow and grabbed his other arm, shoving him off balance. He slammed into the wall behind me – luckily it was a proper stone wall, rather than a flimsy stage set – and managed to raise his weapon for another strike, then suddenly hesitated. There was a shocked expression on his face, as if he’d seen something he hadn’t expected to see.

I didn’t give him time to recover. The audience shrieked with fear and excitement as I drove the blade of my glass frostsword into the assassin’s stomach. Some of them even clapped – I think they must have thought it was part of the play.

The man slumped to the ground as I pulled out the blade, and I paused to catch my breath. For a moment I thought this must have been another Dark Brotherhood attack – but if so, why had he called me ‘actor scum’? Suddenly it hit me: he’d thought I was Tarvus, the actor who’d fallen sick. But in that case –

I pulled off my helmet and swept an ironic bow to the crowd, who erupted in cheers, then ripped down one of the ‘Mournhold Players’ banners and used it to wipe off my sword. A trembling Gureryne hurried out of my way as I marched through the stage door, yanking it shut behind me. Meryn Othralas was waiting there, looking just slightly nervous.

I slammed my sword back into its scabbard with a force that made him wince. “What. The hell. Was that about?”

“Ah. Yes,” he said, rather faintly. “I hope you can forgive us, but we knew that an assassin would attack sooner or later. There’s a good reason,” he added hastily, seeing the expression on my face.

I leaned back against the wall, folding my arms. “This had better be good.”

“Yes, well, you see –” Meryn was starting to recover his confidence. “Our lead actor, Tarvus, recently had a somewhat indecent tryst with the daughter of a Telvanni diplomat. The diplomat caught him in the act, and vowed revenge. Since Tarvus changes residences frequently, we knew an attack would come during his performance, when the diplomat could be sure of Tarvus’ location.”

“And you didn’t tell me this why, exactly?”

“Well, I thought you might refuse to take the part,” he said reasonably. “Anyway, since you were able to dispatch the would-be assassin, hopefully the diplomat won’t try again. I know that the services of the Morag Tong are very expensive to enlist. I apologise for using you in this manner, sera, but I hope you understand why it was necessary.”

I briefly considered giving him a mouthful of broken teeth, but decided it wasn’t worth the trouble. “Whatever,” I said with a sigh. “I assume I’m getting paid for this?”

He cleared his throat, looking slightly relieved. “Ah yes, well… I do intend to pay you in full. Let’s see: during the play you only made two mistakes. Not bad – for an amateur,” he added graciously. “But your acting skills could definitely use some improvement. Here, take this gold and this amulet that will improve your acting abilities whenever you need it.”

He handed me an enchanted amulet and a pouch containing 1,800 septims. I thanked him grudgingly and went on my way, heading for the smithy to buy some armourer’s hammers.

It wasn’t until a few minutes later that I realised what I’d done, and then I wanted to smack my head into the nearest wall. I’d come to Mournhold anonymously, hoping to track down my assassins before they realised I was here, and what was the very first thing I’d done? Taken the lead in a hit play and foiled a Morag Tong attack in front of a huge crowd. I might as well have unfurled a huge banner saying “Look Out, Mournhold: Ada Ventura Is Here!”

As I was heading back up the steps, a young Dunmer woman shyly approached me. “Excuse me, sera,” she said. “It was you in the play, wasn’t it?” I nodded resignedly.

“You were so brave.” She hesitated for a moment. “I wondered… is it true that you’re the Nerevarine?”

Good gods, how had that got out already? “Yes, it’s true,” I said with a sigh, “but I’d appreciate it if you didn’t spread it around. I’m… here on a rest break and I don’t want everyone pestering me for autographs.”

“Oh.” Her cheeks flushed light purple. “Well, in that case… I’ll just leave you alone, then. I’m very sorry to have bothered you.”

Oh, crap. “Hang on a minute. Are you saying you wanted an autograph?”

“Well… yes, I would quite like one,” she said, blushing even more deeply. “If you really wouldn’t mind?”

For a moment, wild paranoia gripped me. What if she was a spy for the Dark Brotherhood? Then I realised how stupid I was being. She wasn’t, and even if she had been, what difference did it make now?

“Okay, then. Just for you.” I slid my pack off my shoulders and began to rummage around in it for a quill and inkwell. “Sorry, what’s your name?”

“Marena Gilnith.” She gave me a small handbill advertising The Horror of Castle Xyr, and I signed it for her with a short, friendly message. “Thank you,” she said, as she took it back. “I can’t wait to tell everyone back home that I met the Nerevarine.”

“You’re not from Mournhold, then?”

She shook her head, looking a bit wistful. “I grew up in a small village in the south of Morrowind. Believe it or not, I had no intention of working here when I came to Mournhold… but you probably don’t want to hear my sob story, do you?”

I hesitated. It was a warm summer evening, and it would still be light for several hours yet; what harm could it do to stay for five minutes? “No, go ahead.”

Marena sighed. “Well, it’s mostly my fault, really. My parents cared for me a great deal, and only wanted the best for me. But when they arranged my marriage to a wealthy nobleman, I couldn’t take it – he was disgusting, and I wanted nothing to do with him. So I ran away, and ended up here in Mournhold.”

I felt a twinge of sympathy for her. My parents hadn’t tried to force me into marriage, but apart from that, her story sounded all too similar to my own. “So what were you hoping to do here, if you didn’t plan to work?”

She blushed again. “I know it sounds silly, but I was convinced that I’d be able to find the man of my dreams.”

“Never rely on that,” I warned her. “Seriously.”

“I was foolish about it, to be sure. I never considered that I’d need money to survive on my own… but I was determined not to go crawling back to the village and beg forgiveness. I’d make it on my own, and only then would I contact my parents and let them know where I was.” She sighed again. “So I started working... and now it’s all I do. I never have time to meet anyone.”

“I’m sorry.” I wasn’t sure what else to say.

Marena shrugged. “Well, I’d better get back to work,” she said, forcing a smile. “Let me know if you meet any nice, single men, will you?”

I doubted that was going to happen, unless she was into guys who hung out in sewers and worshipped the Night Mother. Still… she seemed like a nice woman, and I felt sorry for her. It couldn’t hurt to keep my eyes open, could it?

“What sort of guys are you looking for?” I asked. “Any particular type?”

“I’m not sure… someone charming and worldly, I guess. Someone exciting.”

Not exactly much to go on. Still, I’d already hooked up a noblewoman with a highwayman and a Redoran councillor with his own bodyguard; how hard could it be to find someone for Marena?

As I walked off to look for the entrance to the sewers, I found my thoughts wandering back to my own home in Cyrodiil. I still hadn’t heard anything from my parents; either my letters just hadn’t reached them – which wouldn’t be all that surprising, given the recent troubles – or they still hadn’t forgiven me for running away. Or… well, I really didn’t want to think about the alternative. I hoped Marena would manage to make things up with her own family before it was too late.

It took me nearly half an hour to find the one sewer covering in the entire bazaar. I set a Mark in case I needed to get out in a hurry, then hung around awkwardly for a while, wondering how to look inconspicuous while pulling up a sewer grating. In the end I just lifted it casually and climbed in, and the few people nearby didn’t seem to notice or care.

Beneath the covering was a ladder leading down into the Mournhold underworks. There was a shallow pool of water at the bottom, but luckily it seemed to be just rainwater rather than… any other kind. To one side was a rocky cave which was mostly submerged; to the other was a crumbling stone archway leading into a wide passage.

My plan was to scout out the place briefly, then come back later to tackle the Brotherhood – hopefully with reinforcements. I cast my Amulet of Shadows before heading through the archway, and moments later I was glad I’d taken the trouble – the first thing I saw there was a shifty-looking Khajiit woman mooching around in a corner. I didn’t know if she was anything to do with the Dark Brotherhood, but I didn’t want to risk it.

As I looked around me, I realised that the place didn’t actually look much like a sewer (or smell like one, to my great relief). It was large and airy, with very little water around, and the floor was paved with mosaic tiles – a bit like a corridor, or even a city street. Weird.

I crept through the maze-like passageways until I came to another small archway, leading into a natural cavern. Through a grating in the side wall I could see a skeleton warrior armed with a silver katana. If the Brotherhood really was here, how the heck did they get past these creatures whenever they came in and out? Had they come to some sort of agreement with the skeletons?

I cast my Chameleon enchantment again and crept past the skeletons until I reached a chamber with two exits – one of which was heavily flooded. Damn, I thought. Why hadn’t it occurred to me that this might happen? If I went the wrong way, I could end up wandering around here for hours. Maybe I should have hired a guide.

Then it occurred to me: why shouldn’t I hire a guide? I could afford it. There had to be mercenaries in Mournhold, and some of them (okay, maybe not the more reputable ones) probably knew their way around the sewers. If I managed to find someone trustworthy enough, they could even act as a bodyguard.

Enough exploring for the day, I decided. It was time to find somewhere to stay the night. I used my amulet of Recall to take me back to the Bazaar, then re-entered the Plaza Brindisi Dorom and headed towards the Godsreach district.