Trey in Mournhold, Chapter 4 Options

[treydog]

Chapter 4

At last, I had the answer to the question of who had set the Dark Brotherhood upon me. But that answer brought me no peace. In fact, I realized that some truths could be more dangerous than ignorance, a proposition I would never before have believed. When a king wants you dead, you generally die. The only questions are how soon and how painfully you do so. It was one thing for someone to tell me that Emperor had taken an interest in me; after all, the Emperor was far away. But Helseth was the king of the province of Morrowind, a place from which I could find no escape. And if the rumors were correct, he was working hard to consolidate his power and remove any rivals. Whether he was truly responsible for the deaths of some of those other nobles, I could not say. But then, I didn’t particularly care, either. The entire “aristocracy” of Tamriel could throttle, bludgeon, and poison one another to their hearts’ content and I would cheer them on while placing bets on the eventual winner. As far as I was concerned, they were all parasites. Unfortunately, when such folk started wars, it was people like me who did the bleeding and dying. The one answer I had- that Helseth was the “who” that wanted me dead spawned another, more important question- why?

Despite my seething anger, I knew that I could not simply march into the palace and confront Helseth with my knowledge. I had seen the royal guards with their armor the color of dried blood and knew that I could never get past them to the king. And even if I somehow managed to come before him and noise my accusations about, who would listen? He was the king. He could declare me a madman and have me locked up or executed “for the public good.” No one would rush to my aid; no one would defend me. Even if the whole world knew that my words were true, it would change nothing. The king’s word was law. And yet, I could not simply let him get away with the attempts to have me killed. Perhaps I could seek an alliance with Fedris Hler, Almalexia’s steward. I knew that the Temple and Helseth were involved in a power struggle- the priests might be willing to provide substantial assistance in weakening the king. The only trouble with that idea was that I would be putting myself more fully in the power of the Temple. And I did not like or trust them much more than I did the king. Yes, Fedris Hler might help me weaken or even depose Helseth- but I had a feeling my reward would be one last trip to the sewers and a blade in the back. The Temple would gladly use me and then cast me aside or else actively participate in my execution. They could then claim that their hands were clean.

Some may wonder why I did not simply get out of Mournhold and go to ground back on Vvardenfell. After all, I had dealt the Dark Brotherhood serious damage, which they would require some time to repair. And, with the wisdom of years I now possess, that would have been the wise course. It is likely that the internal struggle to replace Dandras Vules would have distracted the assassins sufficiently to buy me all the time I needed. But…I had left Vvardenfell ahead of the wrath of the Camonna Tong as well as to avoid the scrutiny and the schemes of the Blades. I was heartily tired of running away from my enemies. And Helseth was one man, albeit a king. That gave me a convenient target upon whom to focus my rage and my sense of being ill-used. Even if I had wanted to fight the Blades, I had no idea how to do so. As for seeking the destruction of the Camonna Tong, I had discovered that down that road lay the loss of my very soul. But to pit my skills and my desire for revenge against a king- that seemed highly worthwhile to me. Perhaps as much as anything else, I wanted to make Helseth pay for all the wrongs that had been done me, whether they could rightfully be laid at his door or not. It wasn’t wise, it wasn’t rational- but it felt right. It felt like justice, which was what I believed I wanted. Now I know that the worst that can happen to most of us is to get what we deserve.

Thus, I resolved to do something foolish- to seek justice against a king who had a short way with any who crossed him. But, if I was going to do something foolish, I would at least do it in an intelligent way. I needed information; I needed a way to get close to Helseth; I needed a safe haven if all else failed. Information and perhaps even access could be obtained with gold- of that I had a sufficiency. As for a safe haven- much as it roiled my stomach, I would have to depend upon the Temple. Fedris Hler and Almalexia were the only ones in Vvardenfell with the stature and the support to oppose Helseth and get away with it. He dared not confront them directly, knowing that the more traditional Dunmer would riot if he tried. And, now that I thought about it, my foray against the goblins had weakened the king significantly. They had probably been intended as a secret force that he could send against his enemies without appearing to be directly involved. But even a power-mad despot like Helseth knew that a fight between the Royal Guards and Almalexia’s Hands would bring the Imperial Legion into the mix. And the Emperor would most assuredly NOT be happy with a provincial governor who fomented a civil war. I still didn’t trust the Temple, but “the enemy of my enemy is my friend.” Or at least my co-conspirator….

So- information first; preferably information that I could trade to the Temple for protection. Not everyone who worked around the palace was a Helseth loyalist- with patience and a few coins, I might find someone who was willing to talk. Therefore, I placed a firm hold on my temper and made my way to the palace to seek information. Wanting to ensure that I made the right impression (and to avoid any “accidents”), I put away my sword and donned an ornate robe to cover my armor. All that remained was to devise a plausible reason for hanging around the palace, asking questions. I knew that I could not pretend to be there in any official capacity- besides the fact that I had no credentials, a formal inspection was the surest way to guarantee that no one said anything of interest. It would have to be something that encouraged people to talk- something that put them at ease. The truth was, most people would tell you almost anything if you just approached them in the right way. My love of books and words had already awakened in me the secret desire to be a writer- and that would be my cover. In such guise would I seek the lever that would allow me to topple a king.

[treydog]

This installment is dedicated to everyone who writes, who gives us their imagination on the page...and most of all to Kiln, with the hope that he will one day grace us with the conclusion of his story.
T.

As a result of my light-fingered ways, I had picked up quite a few pieces of blank paper and some quill pens and ink bottles during my wanderings in Vvardenfell and Mournhold. Equipped with this paraphernalia and the proper fussy attitude, I believed that I could pass myself off as a writer. In fact, I had already begun keeping notes of my misadventures, the results of which effort you now hold in your hands. My plan for getting information about and perhaps access to the king was that I would “interview” the servants, workers, and other “lower class” sorts in and around the palace. The idea of seeing their own words in print would loosen tongues more surely than the strongest drink. Perhaps I would even be so bold as to speak to some of the guards, even though they were more than a little intimidating. I knew that I was playing a dangerous game- Helseth had to know by now that I was in Mournhold. I only hoped he did not yet realize that I had uncovered his role in the attempts upon my life.

My day was one of frustration and disappointment. The servants possessed no useful information- unless I had cared about the usual “below stairs” gossip of what the scullery maid had said to the cook’s assistant. Beyond that, it seemed that Helseth’s people were either too loyal or too frightened to say anything about him. Having exhausted the possibilities amongst the servants, I turned my attention elsewhere. It seemed to me that a likely source of friction (and therefore gossip) would be the Imperial Legionnaires stationed at the depot that was part of the palace complex. From time immemorial, it has been a fact that “regular troops” have resented “elite units” such as Helseth’s Royal Guard. The regulars get bad food, bad pay, and dangerous jobs. The guards eat well, get paid extravagantly, and generally don’t do anything but stand around and look pretty. When I approached a Legion captain, I got quite a surprise- not concerning the Royal Guards, who he despised, but something else altogether. When I introduced myself as a writer and said I was “interested in getting the real story of life in Mournhold,” he rolled a chew of hackle-lo from one side of his mouth to the other, then said,

“Writer, are you? There’s a veritable plague of you fellows around here. Or maybe you and that other fellow are working together…? One hits ‘em high and the other hits ‘em low- is that it?”

Completely mystified, I stammered, “How do you mean?”

The captain spat a stream of hackle-lo juice at an innocent bug and continued, “Well, it just seems that with the king and his mother in residence that you writers are swarming around the palace like flies on a dung-heap. That Mero feller, what wrote about Queen Barenziah, he’s here. And now you. ”

I could scarcely believe my ears. Completely forgetting my original purpose, I asked,

“ ’Mero’? Do you mean Plitinius Mero? The one who is supposed to have written The Real Barenziah? You mean to say he’s here in Mournhold?”

The captain squinted at me and said, “Yeah, that’s the one. He’s usually out in the courtyard, taking the air. Why? Does he owe you money or sumpin’?”

That last was asked of my departing back as I pelted down the hallway with my robes flapping around me.

Anyone who has followed my story will know of my almost obsessive love for books- a trait which has cost me several fortunes and led me into a number of less-than-wise decisions. That being the case, is it any wonder that the only people I truly held in esteem were writers? Emulation of my heroes was the reason that I had taken to writing down my own experiences. But here was a chance to actually meet one of those literary giants in the flesh. Even though the author of the multi-volume biography/history/ romance entitled The Real Barenziah was supposedly unknown, every scholar worth his robe knew that the writer was Plitinius Mero. Mero had known the queen most of her life and had been with her through all the eventful years of the Succession Wars. She had grown to confide in him, and his writings had made her the most beloved of all the royals in Tamriel. To be able to actually speak with a published author was an unbelievable stroke of fortune. I will grant you that it wasn’t quite as exciting as would have been a meeting with Sudhendra Vahl, or Telina Delvanni, or even the legendary Kiln the Wanderer. On the other hand, if their own words were to be believed, meeting a couple of those folk might well have been a fatal proposition.

In its own way, my meeting with Plitinius Mero was as disappointing as my attempts to extract information from the servants. He was a pleasant enough fellow- for an Imperial. I came upon him wandering the courtyard with a slightly distracted air, muttering to himself and scribbling notes on a parchment. When I shyly approached him, he peered at me and said,

“Oh, excuse me. I was just trying to get a little writing done.”

And that was the first and last thing he said about his profession. Whether his reluctance stemmed from fear of a younger rival or from some other cause, I cannot say. That is certainly possible, for it was a sad fact that writing was a cut-throat business in those days. To make a living, a writer had to find a wealthy patron. Still worse, the name that appeared on a published work was often not the name of the actual writer. All it took was a bribe to an unscrupulous printer and, hey presto, your life’s work was someone else’s ticket to fame and fortune. In the end, the only useful information that I got from Mero was that everything went through Tienius Delitian, the captain of the Royal Guard. Anyone who wanted to deal with Helseth would have to deal with Delitian first.

Taking my leave of the famous author with a polite nod, I found a quiet bench and sat down to consider my next move. As things stood, I had nothing the Temple wanted except my sword. Somehow, I did not believe that my wit and charm would have much effect on Fedris Hler- at least not to the extent of persuading him into taking overt action against the king. He knew as well as I did that Uriel Septim would not hesitate to order the execution of a priest, no matter how many lives it took to accomplish the feat. Reluctantly, I concluded that Tienius Delitian was my only path to the king. I had stealthily checked the door to Helseth’s private quarters during my earlier wanderings around the palace, and knew that I had no hope of breaching that entry with anything less than a battering ram. I most profoundly DID NOT want to meet with Helseth’s guard captain under any circumstances. A man did not get to be head of a royal guard detachment without being smart as well as ruthless. I detested smart guards. They varied their routines, showed up in unexpected places, and asked uncomfortable questions. And a smart royal guardsman would tend to have an uncanny nose for assassination attempts. Or even for people who just didn’t much like the king. And here I was, preparing to present myself to such a man, to try to fool him, to convince him that I could be trusted in the presence of the king. Perhaps I could save myself the trouble and just run up to a sleeping dragon and give it a sharp rap on the snout. Assuming I could find a dragon, sleeping or otherwise. It was worth thinking about. After all, searching for a dragon could take years. Then waiting for it to go to sleep could take some more years. Maybe Helseth would accommodate me by dying of old age in the meantime. Maybe pigs would fly. Maybe it was time to quit stalling and go see Tienius Delitian.