The Tale of Sudhendra Vahl: City of Light, City of Magic Options

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The tower was deeply subdued this morning, people moving around on tiptoe as Kallin spoke to me while I broke my fast. “The assassin came in from the southeast,” she briefed me, adding bitterly, “we found a dead guard. He’d been dragged over the hill out of sight. We also found this, outside.”

She handed me a small silver and glass phial. There were only a few dregs of the potion it had contained left in the bottom, but the thick smell rising from the flask was enough to tell us both what it had contained. “Having levitated to your balcony, he used a pick to unlock the door, greasing the hinges so they’d make no noise. How do you intend to respond, Arch-Magister?”

“By tearing a few strips off Master Neloth’s hide,” I replied. “I want to see how much of that ample paunch I can remove before he dies of blood loss or shock. Yes Raissu,” I said, turning my head to address the fidgeting estate manager, “you have something to add?”

“It may be prudent to stay your wrath until you’ve spoken with Neloth’s Mouth,” she suggested. I indicated that she should explain. “I have little knowledge of the Guild of Assassins,” she continued, “nobody does. And those that do have knowledge keep very, very quiet. However, if Neloth had targeted you for assassination, wouldn’t they have had to issue a Black Writ?”

“Which we would have known about,” an exasperated Kallin said, dropping her head so her forehead banged on the table. “Raissu is right, Arch-Magister. The Morag Tong may be a bunch of murderous cut-throats, but they do stick to their rules.”

Kallin then explained to me what she knew of the workings of the Dunmeri assassins. How a Black Writ has to be issued for the ‘execution’ of a target and how the target is made aware of the existence of the Writ. It seemed an odd system to me but it had been that way, apparently, for hundreds of years.

“Everyone out,” I commanded as I stalked into the Telvanni Council Hall in Sadrith Mora. “Not you Arara Uvulas,” I added as the Mouths started to leave. When she and I were the only ones left in the chamber, I spoke, “Last night there was an attempt on my life. Neloth has declared that he considers himself to be my enemy. Give me a good reason I shouldn’t end his life right now.”

Arara looked stricken, glancing about as though in search of aid. Finally, she swallowed and said, “My Master has not been in contact with me for days. In fact Sed, he hasn’t been out of Tel Naga since you became Arch-Magister. He… regrets certain comments he made to you and wishes he had not been so… hasty. I believe he fears that he may have made… an error of judgement.”

I snorted back laughter. Ignoring it, Arara continued, “As for arranging an assassination attempt? It is not something Neloth would do, for fear of precisely this situation.”

“In other words,” I said, “he’s a bully and a coward. Afraid that he’s made a mortal enemy of the Head of House.”

Arara hesitated, then gave a quick nod of the head ~ about as much confirmation that my words were true as I was likely to get from her. “Then if not Neloth,” I mused out loud, “who sent that assassin to my stronghold? Unlikely to be House Redoran, if they wanted me dead they’d do it themselves. House Hlaalu? They could certainly afford to equip an assassin in the armour…”

“Armour, Arch-Magister?” Arara interrupted my thoughts. “What sort of armour?”

“Black,” I replied. “Light-weight, high-quality black armour.”

“Then it was not the Morag Tong,” she said flatly. “Their assassins eschew armour, preferring simple robes. And if it was not the Morag Tong that tried to kill you, then it was not one of the Dunmeri factions that arranged it. Let me call one of the House Guards, they may be able to shed some light on the matter.”

The nervous looking guard listened to my tale and spoke quickly when I’d finished. “Sounds like the Dark Brotherhood, Sed Vahl. If you have been targeted for assassination by them…” he let his comment trail off. I wondered where I could find this Brotherhood. “I don’t know,” he replied in response to my question, “but there is a new arrival in Ebonheart who may be able to assist you. An Imperial by the name of Apelles Matius.”

Delas Mrania was only too happy to sell me a spell to get me to Ebonheart when I spoke to her and, after learning it; I took myself from Ald’ruhn to the Imperial blandness of Ebonheart’s Fort.

“You’ll forgive me if I am sceptical Dark Elf,” Apelles Matius said, giving me a condescending smile when I’d told him my tale. “If you were truly marked for death by the Dark Brotherhood, we would not be having this conversation.”

“I am not accustomed to being called a liar Matius,” I snapped. “You’d do well to remember your manners. Now, speak to me of the Dark Brotherhood.”

“Well,” he said, quite taken aback. “If you’re telling the truth… which I have no doubt you are,” he added hastily as I smiled blandly at him and dropped my hand to the hilt of my sword, “then you need to travel to Mournhold. That is the only bastion of the Dark Brotherhood in this Province that I am aware of.

“The problem is, Vvardenfell is under quarantine because of the Blight. However, if you speak to Asciene Rane in the Council Hall, I’m sure she would be able to transport you there.”

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“That would depend,” I said, dropping my hand to the hilt of my sword, “on who was asking.”

“I come on behalf of Plitinius Mero,” the Dunmer said, taking a nervous step backwards. “He would like to meet with you in the palace courtyard, as soon as possible.” Message delivered, the courtier fled. Poor fellow, he was probably quite unaccustomed to grim-faced Dunmer threatening him. I would have to remember, I mused, that there were different rules here in Mournhold than on Vvardenfell.

“Ahh, you gave my friend quite the scare,” the smiling, grey-haired Man said as I approached him. “I am Plitinius Mero and I am, I’m afraid, quite unsure how to address you.”

“Sed Vahl, or Arch-Magister, are fine,” I said, grasping his outstretched hand and giving it a shake. “Why do you wish to see me?”

“Well, Sed Vahl,” he said, “it seems that King Helseth has learned that there is a plot to kill the clockmaker…”

“I feared as much,” I said, interrupting. I went on to explain the things I’d found aboard the Muzariah.

“Quite,” he said, looking at me with a quiet smile. “Well, perhaps a little background will help? Albrege is, as you know, a clockmaker. There are some among the adherents of Akatosh that hold he is defiling the Dragon’s realm by… well, their phrasing is ‘capturing the Dragon’s essence’. Now, while most members of the Akatosh cult are quite willing to let the Man be, there are certain zealots who’d like nothing more than to kill him. Those particular zealots were, King Helseth thinks, responsible for the wrecking of the Muzariah and are on their way here to kill Albrege. According to our… King Helseth’s sources, the attempt will be made tomorrow night.”

“And Helseth wishes me to protect the clockmaker?” I said with a sigh.

“Exactly,” Plitinius Mero said. “He feels that such an assassination would only reinforce the general belief that the Dunmer are a superstitious people, mired in the past.”

Ederen Albrege dismissed the whole thing as fantasy. “Nonsense,” he snapped. “I’m a simple artisan; the thought of anyone trying to kill me is… well, ridiculous.” And that was as much as he would discuss the matter with me. His wife, Sosille, was a different matter.

“Oh dear, not again,” she moaned when I told her that there was a possibility of an assassination attempt. She explained that was the reason that they’d left Cyrodiil City, the threats against her husband’s life had become so extreme that they’d moved as far away as they could get. She asked me what she could do, and I explained that I intended to be on hand and that I was going to try and foil the killers if I could. She looked a little sceptical, but agreed that she would let me stop in the Craftsman’s Hall on the morrow.

I spoke to a rather annoyed Bols Indalen about my boots. He confirmed that they’ be ready on the morrow. When I enquired as to the cause of his annoyance, he virtually exploded. “That damn’ fool Ilnori Faustus left this morning, took five hundred Septims from the cash box, several good bits of armour, a sword and just sodded off. If I get my hands on that thieving little…

“Ahem,” he said, recovering his composure. “Well, let’s just say that young Master Faustus won’t be welcome back here. Which leaves me with no apprentice. Say, you wouldn’t be interested would you?”

I assured him that, while his offer was extremely kind, I really had no interest in blacksmithing. “If I meet anyone who’s looking for a job I’ll make sure to send them to you,” I promised.

I returned to Godsreach and made my way to the Wing'd Guar, intending to take a meal and maybe a libation or two before returning to the Craftsman’s Hall. Just because the information said that the assassination attempt was scheduled for the morrow was no reason to take chances. As I approached, I was amused to see a Bosmer remonstrating with two Ordinators. Whatever reply he got from them obviously wasn’t the one he wanted and, when I got to the inn’s door, he was fair vibrating with indignation. “Stupid Nords,” he fumed as I went past. “Going around beating people up for no reason whatsoever. Shouldn’t be allowed. And those guards, they’re about as much use as a paper shield. Hey, Dark Elf…”

I tensed slightly at that. Everyone on Vvardenfell was careful not to use that particular name for the Dunmeri ~ well, everyone except the Imperials and those who’re being deliberately insulting ~ and I’d gotten used to it. Here on the mainland they seemed a little less careful. “What do you want… Wood Elf?” I responded, heavily stressing the words ‘wood’ and ‘elf’.

Now it was his turn to tense up and glare. He obviously decided we were about even in the insulting each other stakes and said, “there’s this big Nord in the Wing'd Guar. He beat me up for no reason whatsoever. If you take care of him, I’ll reward you handsomely.”

“’Take care of him’?” I spluttered. “What? Do I look like an assassin to you?”

“No, no, no you misunderstand,” he gasped, waving his hands in a gesture that was probably intended to make me calm down. “I want the big lummox humiliated, not killed.” I shrugged, telling High-Pockets that I’d see what I could do. Finding the big Nord wasn’t a problem; he was the one yelling something about ‘taking on anyone who fancied a wee fight’. I didn’t fancy a fight and told him so when he challenged me. I did offer to buy him a couple of drinks by way of recompense.

“I want you to put a measure of Cyrodiilic Brandy in the bottom of a mug,” I told the Suthay-Raht behind the counter. When the strong brown liquor had been poured, I told the barkeeper to add equal measures of Sujamma, Matze, Flinn, and that thick viscous Mead that the Nords are so fond of. Carrying the noxious brew back to the swaying Holmar, I presented it with my compliments.

“Yer health lassie,” the Nord said, raising the tankard and taking a massive swig of the contents. “Hmmm, no a bad drop of the creature,” he said. Raising the tankard again, he drank deeply, slamming the empty mug on the table. “That fair hit the spot… I…” a look of consternation appeared on the Nord’s face. A second later he belched, loudly enough to rattle the bottles on the shelves.

“No feelin’ so well,” he groaned, staggering to his feet. He stood there, swaying gently. Then, with all the impressiveness of a tree that’s just been felled, he toppled forward. With a crash he hit the floor, while High-Pockets danced gleefully.

“That was wonderful,” he said, clapping his hands. “Here, have this ring and purse of money. You deserve it.” With that, he turned and swaggered out of the inn.

The grinning barkeeper handed me a plate of food and a glass of Sujamma and I took my place at the table while I ate. Inns are really quite useful places, you can overhear all sorts of things if you’re quite and pay attention. Like the rumour going around that the Empire might recall the Legions to deal with civil unrest in Cyrodiil City. Or the fact that a merchant called ‘Ten-Tongues Weerhat’ offered surprisingly high discounts on potent scrolls and magical items. Having made careful note of the dividends of my eavesdropping, I left the inn and stood breathing the early afternoon air. There was quite a while left before my self-imposed vigil at the Craftsman's Hall was due to start, so I decided to have a look around the museum.

The museum proved to be very disappointing: they had only the one item on display. Although, I have to say, it was a very impressive item ~ a hammer allegedly belonging to Stendarr. According to the gilded plaque, it weighed over 1000 pounds ~ making it impossible for a mortal to wield in combat. The curator saw me admiring the hammer and came over to speak to me. “I’m pleased to see a visitor, we don’t get many,” she said.

“That might have something to do with the lack of things on display,” I said bluntly.

She laughed, apparently not offended by my comment. “That’s probably true,” she said. “We do have quite a large budget to buy items, but very few people seem to want to part with them. For instance, is that Veloth’s Hammer I see slung to the back of your pack?”

“It is,” I replied. “Make me an offer.” She looked at me, dumbstruck for a moment.

“Are you serious?” she asked, breathlessly. When I nodded, she fetched out a large purse and offered me five thousand Septims for the hammer. That certainly seemed a very good price to me, especially since I had no skill using such a weapon. With a handshake, we sealed the deal ~ she rushed off to put the hammer on display while I walked out a good deal richer than I had been when I walked in.

Taking a brief detour to drop the money into a securely locked chest in Velas Manor, I made my way back to the Craftsman’s Hall and settled down in a seat by the door. Even though I managed to stay awake for most of the night ~ falling into the occasional fitful doze ~ nothing, and lots of it, happened.